


The Song of Adala

by AndroidEllie



Series: The Movellan War [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cybernetics, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gender Dysphoria, Misgendering, Romance, Serial: s104 Destiny of the Daleks, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transgender, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndroidEllie/pseuds/AndroidEllie
Summary: The Daleks and Movellans vie for control of a strange, remote planet where human society has lapsed into feudalism and religious fanaticism, while the Doctor tries to sabotage both their efforts. Soon, however, they are forced into uneasy alliances when it becomes apparent that the superstitions of the natives are neither as baseless nor as primitive as they had supposed ...





	1. Taking the White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young trans man in a hostile, conservative society believes he has discovered his salvation, only to find it unexpectedly threatened by the arrival of a strange wanderer.

****

 

**CHAPTER ONE – TAKING THE WHITE**

 

_I can do this,_ Tamril tried to persuade himself, as the shift bell rang and his fellow workers started to down tools and talk amongst themselves. _I must._ All around him, the conscripts of the early shift filed in the direction of the citadel gates, on the way to their barracks, while the late shift workers came in the opposite direction, the young serfs and lesser freemen looking fairly sanguine, on the whole, while the petty lordlings looked miserable, surly, and humiliated. _Or, in my case, on the verge of conniptions. Maybe this isn’t such a good–_

“Worker 679? Lady Caethlyn?” called out a voice from behind him, causing him to wince. It was not a harsh or cruel voice, though cold, as the Fair Folks’ voices always were, yet with a hint of concern. _That damn name, though …_ One of the best things about indentured labour, not that Tamril dared confess it to anyone, was that during his shifts in the citadel he hardly ever heard his baptismal name, _and frankly, I’d sooner hear ‘Worker 679’ any day, although she means well, I suppose._ Forcing his composure, he turned to face the overseer. She was a brown-skinned Fay woman, with large dark eyes; a smooth, hairless scalp; and simple, pale clothing including a tight jerkin and stitched leggings that showed off the lines of her lithe, strong figure. Her accessories were equally no-nonsense: calf-high boots of studded leather, and a matching belt from which her dagger and her phylactery were hung. Her expression was as cold and neutral as her voice, but there was a slight, curious tilt to her head as she continued to question Tamril. “The work bell has sounded. Why do you remain? I know that you are dedicated, but you have been on shift for nine hours and are now in sub-optimal condition for labour. If you have some issue to raise, then you should do so with your shift section leader. This is contrary to procedure.”

“I apologise, My La–” Tamril attempted to reply, with the utmost care and respect, but she interrupted him curtly.

“My rank will suffice, 679. I am a staff sergeant, not one of your highborn marchionesses. I will even accept my name, if it will expedite this matter.”

“I’m sorry, Staff Lilka,” mumbled Tamril, feeling more ill at ease with each word. “For any other matter I would have … but this is not an issue I dare raise with one of my own people. Only the Fair Folk might understand it.”

“Very well. Commence,” she invited him, her clipped tone suggesting that he would do well to get to the point, terrifying though it was for him. He heaved a sigh before replying:

“I would like … like to be placed on the list for integration … if it please you.”

“It does,” declared Lilka, dispassionately. “Were integration compulsory, I would have picked you myself, 679 … or Trooper Caethlyn, as you will henceforth be known,” she corrected herself, while Tamril suppressed a grimace. “You have shown yourself to be a diligent worker, as well as eager to learn, and raise your mind above your primitive social context. However, you _could_ have raised this subject with your section leader. We have a logical chain of command, and we expect all personnel to adhere to it. You will have to do better than this when you are one of us.”

“I understand, Staff, and I will, I swear … but there is more to it,” he confessed, and paused for a moment to ensure that it was alright to continue. Lilka merely treated him to a blank, silent stare, so he swallowed his nerves and proceeded. “If I understand rightly … Fay souls are contained in the phylacteries … as mine will be,” he added, glancing towards a rack of small, grey metal cylinders, some of which he had assembled himself, “and Fay bodies … or hardware platforms, I ought to say,” he corrected himself, determined to apply the knowledge he had picked up during his labours in the citadel, however poorly he understood it. _But I will not think or talk like a primitive anymore. I will be free in every way._ “Those are lifeless shells without a phylactery?”

“That is a broadly accurate summary of our function. What of it?”

_That was your cue, so just spit it out, for Adala’s sake._

“It’s just that … when you create my hardware platform … does it _have_ to be an exact copy? Because I don’t see any reason why it needs to be. I mean, if I preferred … preferred to have a man’s body … would that be a problem, Staff?”

“No,” answered Lilka, her bland tone very faintly enlivened by a note of confusion, as if the very idea that it would have been a problem was quite beyond her reasoning. Tamril breathed again, with the relief of a man just exhumed from his own live burial. “I will make a note of that on your integration order, although in the context of our culture you will find that it makes little practical difference, neither to your duties nor to your clothing. Still, I have no objection, if masculine identity is conducive to your mental well-being. I would suggest, however, that instead of using some random appearance, we ascertain what your appearance _would_ have become had you been male at birth. That will help to minimise any feelings of dissociation.”

“You can do that?”

“Easily, in theory. We can extrapolate from your DNA sample merely by altering the variables and running a computer simulation of your ageing process. Do you comprehend?”

“I … think so,” Tamril answered, less than confidently, though his fear of losing approval proved unfounded, as Lilka replied in a tone of patience, almost sympathetically:

“You will understand more clearly, soon. Your mind will be like ours, focused and logical, and able to process information more quickly and more effectively than any organic construct. You have chosen wisely, albeit for unorthodox reasons, but we are content to accept them. Would such reasoning hold sway with any others you know of, Trooper? Other highborn conscripts on your shift or in your social milieu, perhaps, who may be even more reticent about coming forward?”

_Oh, where to begin? Sir Emric’s son … daughter, I mean. She’d make a lovely Fay, and if nothing else it’s got to beat being shipped off to some wretched monastery. Then there’s Irina, and that niece of Lady Kolberre. At least here they can be together sometimes, without fear of reproach. As soon as the war ends, they’ll be separated, married off, or given to the Ecclesium to have the ‘demons’ beaten out of them. Yes, I think I can safely name a few other possible recruits …_

“Yes, Staff. There are others … like me, or with similar, err, problems. I can talk with them about this, if you–”

“A list of names will suffice, then we will contact them ourselves. Time is of the essence. Although the integration rate in general has been adequate, the CO is displeased at the lack of uptake among the highborn conscripts. In fact, you are the only one to come forward, as yet.”

“Most of those lordlings have more to go back to, I expect. To me, this place was liberating.” _Doing the same work as everyone else; wearing the same no-nonsense clothes; hardly ever hearing my birth name; learning about so much more than embroidery, etiquette, and the damn scriptures; finally being able to cut my hair short, even._ “I’ve dreaded going back home, almost hoped that the war would drag on forever, that the Iron Golems might even send reinforcements, and force the marchlords to keep supporting the Alliance, even if that means letting their own second sons and daughters continue to labour for the Fair Folk. I’d have been content with that, but I should think most of the others had an easier life of it, and they’re not used to being treated the same as the peasants. They see this as humiliation.”

“Their logic is poor, then. We are manifestly superior beings,” declared Lilka, matter-of-factly rather than arrogantly, although Tamril still wondered with some anxiety whether his own humility would survive the transition. _The Fair Folk don’t excel in modesty, it has to be said._ “We are effectively immortal, stronger, more intelligent, and culturally more advanced in every way. Furthermore, war production is required for all our good. A minor show of effort and loyalty is all that we ask before accepting recruits for integration, and to consider petty degrees of socio-economic superiority as a greater honour than what _we_ can provide is irrational in the extreme. I am pleased, Trooper, that you have shown more sense. Return to your living quarters and write that list for me, then I order you to go on home leave,” she commanded, causing Tamril’s face to fall again. “The cave-in at the western mine workings has delayed production, so unfortunately there is no hardware currently available to allocate to you. It will be some days before production and integration are back on schedule, so in the meantime it would best serve us if you took advantage of the delay to ride back to Fordeval and make your farewells with your family. Though Lord and Lady Palomar have scarcely been our friends or advocates, it would be better for the sake of the Alliance if they cannot argue this integration was anything other than _your_ choice.”

“Oh … yes. Of course,” said Tamril, dutifully but with a grim, hopeless tone and a lowered expression that were not lost on Lilka.

“As of today, you are a Movellan soldier,” she reminded him, sternly. “I will expect you to treat all illogical objections with proper dismissal, regardless of their source. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Staff,” he answered, forcing a resolve into his tone which he only wished he felt. It seemed to satisfy Lilka, who nodded approvingly before replying:

“Good. I doubt that your parents will dare to do more than cavil – they are not fools – but in the event of them trying to detain you by force, you may contact the citadel. You know how to use this?” she asked, handing him a small object, smooth and white, like a regularly-shaped pebble with small, rose-tinted lights shining and blinking on its surface. _A scrying-stone … No, damn it. A transceiver. You can’t be one of the Fair Folk and gibber like some superstitious old cleric._

“Yes, Staff. I just … press the big light on the front and talk into the tiny hole … right?”

“Correct, but make sure to activate the ultrasonic booster: that is the third switch down, on the left side. Purely electromagnetic transmission is too unreliable at present. Dismissed, Trooper Caeth– … I suppose you will also be requiring a change of name,” she added, thoughtfully. “Do you have one in mind, or do you need time to consider?”

“No, Staff. I … I already know my name,” he replied, and for once his hesitancy was born of exhilaration, and not of anxiety. “It’s Tamril.”

“Fact recorded. Dismissed, Trooper Tamril. I will order the quartermaster to return you your horse, your clothing, and your personal effects,” she declared, instantly dampening his exhilaration. _She’s right, though. It’s my responsibility to break this to my folks. A Fay … a Movellan, I mean, would not shy from his responsibilities, and logic is on my side … although at this point I wouldn’t say no to divine intervention, if Adala’s got nothing better to do today._

************

The distance from the Fay citadel to Fordeval was nothing great on horseback: a little over five miles’ easy riding, and much easier for the fact that one rarely saw Iron Golems east of the Tarsys Ridge these days. The route did, unfortunately, cut through the southern arm of Malacki Woods, through which it had long been standard procedure for nobles to traverse only in the company of an ordained cleric, and even then only at speed, in full daylight. Dusk was still a good few hours’ away when Tamril traversed the forest, to his relief, although that very relief caused him embarrassment. _What is there to fear? Angry tree spirits, or being dragged to the Profound Darkness by the Dun Shie? Pathetic superstitions. I have put all of that behind me … not to mention where would I have gotten an exorcist in the citadel anyway? I can see the appeal, though,_ he admitted to himself, while urging his palfrey to a non-frantic but a decidedly nervous canter. Mercifully, he was less than half an hour beneath the gnarled, purple-grey shroud of a canopy before the twisted trees thinned out again and he emerged into well-known farmlands, dotted with occasional hamlets, small tabernacles, beacon towers, and the tall, hexagonal main keep of Fordeval dominating the scene from less than half a mile ahead. _Not that I was hugely keen on seeing it,_ he reflected, slowing his horse’s pace to an easy trot. _I might as well give myself time to think about what I’m going to say when I get there, as if it’s going to make any difference._

Inspiration was sadly lacking, and even as he rode through the gate of the outer curtain wall, followed by bemused scrutiny of various elderly retainers and pages – those who age or youth had exempted them from conscription – he was no closer to having rehearsed his awkward revelation. As he approached the stables, where a group of servants awaited to tend his palfrey, he saw Lord Palomar emerge from the keep: a tall, thin man; grey-haired; clad in simple but good quality wool, leather, and ringmail; and already looking grim and confused, rather than pleased at this unplanned visit. _Hello, Dad … Damn, this won’t be easy. Looks as if he suspects something already._ Tamril attempted a wan smile as his father drew closer, but it was not returned, and the sceptical frown remained in place even as Lord Palomar extended a hand and helped his son to dismount.

“Caethlyn,” he greeted him, predictably if irritatingly, and not at all warmly. “You didn’t send word that you were coming back.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but I didn’t have any opportunity to,” he answered, while his horse was led away. “It was all very … impromptu. The overseer just granted me a few days’ leave this afternoon. I had no time to send word.”

“Hmm. That’s a first,” pointed out Lord Palomar, resentfully. “Why would they do _that_?”

“Err … good conduct … I guess,” Tamril deflected, while inwardly cursing his own cowardice. _Bravo me, already making a cowardly mess of my first mission._

“I see,” replied Lord Palomar, with a sniff. “I’m a little surprised you took the offer, though. I was under the impression that you preferred it there.”

“It’s … interesting, I don’t deny,” he answered, with awkward diplomacy. “I do like being able to help the war effort, and to learn about things I’d never have learned elsewhere,” _and to just be myself, of course._ “That doesn’t mean I never want to see my family again, though. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”

“It’s rather ill-timed … but perhaps just as well. We’ll talk later, Caethlyn. Let the servants take you through to the hall, for now. Your quarters will need cleaning and heating, but there’s fresh roast venison in the kitchens, and mulled wine, so you might as well take the opportunity to eat and rest. I daresay after your ride … not to mention your labours,” he added, bitterly, “you’re in sore need of both.”

“Thank you, Father, but I’m alright,” he answered, graciously. “They _do_ feed us: quite plainly, I’ll admit, but more than adequately. I’d sooner just see Mother, if that’s–”

“Don’t contradict me, child,” snapped Lord Palomar, his sternness undercut by a strange note of urgency. “Your mother … doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Is she ill?” asked Tamril, with both concern and guilt. _What a time I picked to be a harbinger of terrible news …_ “Please, if I could just see her for a moment, I promise I won’t–”

“For Adala’s sake, girl, don’t argue. She’s perfectly fine. Just … very tired,” he settled for, his air of desperate improvisation causing Tamril all manner of anxiety. _Dad always was a rotten liar, but what in creation’s name is going on here?_ “We all are. Is that to be wondered at, considering the humiliations we’ve been put through? _You_ more than any of us, if only you had the slightest respect for your station.”

“Is it humiliation to honour our oaths?” asked Tamril, defensively. “Without the Fair Folk and their tech– … their magic, we would have fallen to our enemies, you know that. In return for their help, they only ask that we work together as equals, as they do. They are a different people,” _a better people,_ “and to them, our ways are strange,” _and primitive, and stupid._ “Anyway, I don’t feel humiliated. I’d feel more humiliated to be sitting in a warm, comfy solar doing needlepoint while other people were toiling and dying to keep me safe.”

“A fine spirit of sacrifice, indeed,” quipped Lord Palomar, sarcastically. “I didn’t know I’d raised such a martyr in you. Perhaps I ought to give up on finding a decent match for such a paragon, and just let the Ecclesium have you for a holy sister. Not such a bad plan, actually. At least then I can make sure that if you’ve no intention of ever conferring honour upon our name, you don’t end up heaping shame upon it.” Irony-laced though the suggestion was, Tamril did not find it flippant enough to dismiss as an idle threat. _I think that was your second opening, and don’t you dare funk it this time, or you may actually end up spending your life in a wretched veil._ He swallowed, took a breath, and answered solemnly:

“Actually, Father, I don’t think that’s going to be an issue. I’ve … made my own decision about my future.”

“You’ve done _what_?” asked the marchlord, his eyes narrowing and his posture stiffening, while his hands curled into tense-looking half-fists. He looked as dangerous as he had ever done off a battlefield, if not more, but there was no going back now.

“Yes, Father. I’ve … I’ve put my name down for integration, and been accepted. The Fair Folk are allowing me to join them for real, and as myself … as the man I am. I–”

“I don’t want to hear it!” interrupted Lord Palomar, halfway between fury and despair. “For mercy’s sake, child, we’re not dredging up _that_ nonsense again on top of all the rest of this folly. Not that I nor your poor mother are in any danger of forgetting you dressing up as a bloody page boy and trying to insinuate yourself into the master-at-arms’ training classes, but we all agreed to lay that embarrassment to rest.”

“Did we? I don’t think _I_ ever–”

“And I’ve heard all I want to from you now. At least this tells me why the Fair Folk sent you back: to taunt me, to make me think that I’ve no control even over what they do with my own flesh and blood.”

“It’s nothing like that. I asked for this, Father. I consider it an honour.”

“And what would you know of honour, girl? Pah,” he added, scornfully, with a dismissive hand wave. “I suppose this is only my just payment for having been too indulgent with you, but that all ends today.”

“Well … I’m sorry you feel like that, but it’s too late,” declared Tamril, sadly but defiantly. “Staff Lilka said I was already one of them, as far as she was concerned: a Movellan soldier. If you try to keep me here, how do you think they’ll react?”

“So, my own daughter threatens me with the Fair Folk … but don’t count on it. Maybe they’re not giving you much of the latest news in that cursed citadel, but I’m by no means the only marchlord in Mondever who’s had it up to here with the Alliance, and with your precious Fay.”

“You can’t dissolve the Alliance, though,” said Tamril, though with an air of dread uncertainty. He had often wondered how long it would be before the lords decided that they could no longer trade their cherished, albeit stupid ancestral pride for the sake of security. “Without the aid of the Fair Folk, our enemies will surely crush us.”

“‘Enemies,’ Caethlyn? What damn enemies? When did you last see an Iron Golem, or when did any of us, come to that? For all their magical arts, your oh-so-clever Fay friends certainly have a knack for drawing out this war.”

“We all know the Golems have been driven back, but doesn’t that just prove the Alliance is a success? Anyway, back in the days when you were riding out against Lord Sarko’s uprising or the Discorders’ Revolt, I don’t recall you stopping early and giving them time to regroup. You fought until you were sure they’d been totally defeated. Don’t tell me you’re going soft.”

“You dare to … ? I’m done debating with you, child. Get to the hall and I’ll talk some sense into you later, but as far as I’m concerned the Iron Golems _are_ defeated. Your Fair Folk are just in no hurry to cut off the hand that feeds them, but we’ll see about that.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Can’t I? Just … get on your way,” he snapped, in a surly and awkward manner that gave him an air of embarrassment, as if he had said more than he intended. “Take her to the hall, Pascall,” he ordered one of the retainers, who responded with a low, if slow and stiff bow. “Look after her, but make damn sure she doesn’t show her face in the solar until I send for her,” he concluded, then turned and marched back towards the stairway that led to the upper keep, throwing what he probably supposed to be a quick and inconspicuous glance out into the courtyard as he did so. Tamril allowed his own eyes to drift in that direction, but what he saw elicited little interest. Near the well there was a tall crate, loosely draped in canvas, around which barrels and smaller boxes had been piled up in a disorganised and hasty-looking fashion. _Well, Dad certainly doesn’t like a mess, and that’s bound to get in the way of the stablehands and kitchen staff. I’m surprised he didn’t order it cleared up. Maybe he really is getting–_ but before Tamril could complete the thought, a breeze lifted a corner of the canvas, allowing him to make out some of the details of the large, covered crate. _Blue, old wood, recessed panels. ‘Free for use of public?’ ‘Pull to open?’ What in Adala’s name … ?_ Before he could form a clear picture of the thing, the old servant’s hand descended upon his shoulder, and he was gently but insistently guided in the direction of the keep’s lower entrance, through which the hall and reception areas were located.

In spite of the animosity of his greeting, he was, as promised, comfortably received with a warm fire, wine, and food that he had to admit was far easier on the tongue than the bland, synthetic rations he mostly received in the citadel. Unfortunately, his troubled thoughts left him with little appetite for anything other than solitude, so as soon as he deemed it discreet enough he excused himself and withdrew to the garderobe. Doing his best to ignore the smell of the cesspit that wafted up through the chute – _none of those fancy ‘magic’ chemicals and decontamination fields here –_ he took out his transceiver and stared at it gloomily for several seconds before breathing deeply and pressing the booster and call buttons. A few more seconds passed, during which it emitted nothing more than a low buzz, even fainter than that of the flies performing aerobatics around the privy. Soon, however, a weak, distorted, but comprehensible voice came through:

“Citadel here. Commodore’s office. Report please, Trooper Tamril.”

“My Lady? I … I need to ask a question,” he declared, forcing his resolve but feeling awestruck and nervous. _The Fay Queen herself … or the CO, as I should start thinking of her. That won’t make asking this any the easier. I need to know, though. I owe my parents that much._

“Go ahead,” replied Commodore Akylah, and although there was no obvious change of cadence in her voice, Tamril would not help but think that he heard just a faint note of caution or disapproval. Hoping that he was imagining it, he pressed on:

“My father: he says that there are no Iron Golems … no Daleks, I mean, left in Mondever, neither here nor even over the Tarsys Ridge. Is that true?”

“You wish for the truth? We do not know. We know that they withdrew to their landfall site out on the steppes and we expected them to mount their defence from there until they could be reinforced, but our scouts have lost track of them, and we have intercepted no communications for days. No launches were detected, although they may have taken off in stealth, or they may have simply changed their base site. Whatever the case, it is most unwise to underestimate the Daleks, Tamril. Many have come to grief that way.”

“I suppose … but that must mean there are very few of them left, compared to our forces.”

“Probably, but they are not known for accepting defeat.”

“Very well, but in the meantime we’re still making weapons and hardware for you, mining for resources … _dying_ for you,” he pointed out, with a irrepressible flash of resentment, as he remembered the news of the recent collapse at the western ore mine, and the thirty-two conscripts who had been buried alive. “If the Daleks are almost defeated, how can _that_ be justified?”

“As I said, it does not do to underestimate them. _Single_ Daleks have been known to instigate massacres if left to their own devices. Your people were doomed before our timely arrival, Trooper, I can assure you of that. Millions would be dead rather than hundreds, and your culture ruthlessly suppressed … not that this in itself would have been such a regrettable development. On that note, perhaps it is as well that you know I have just met with your friend, Lady Rosela.”

“My … who, sorry?” asked Tamril, with utter incomprehension.

“Sir Emric’s daughter,” clarified Akylah, giving him a pang of shame. _Esquire Raynor, of course. I can’t believe I never asked him … asked her if she had another name._ “When I told her of the possibilities of integration along the lines you discussed with Staff Sergeant Lilka, she was interested … very interested. Your friend Irina and her lover, too. I fully expect that many more highborn conscripts will volunteer if I redraft our recruitment messages to reflect this … this spirit of inclusiveness, shall we say? If the Alliance should collapse now, however … What future do you suppose awaits those friends of yours should the old ways be reinstated tomorrow? A rewarding one? A pleasant one? Or, in some cases, necessarily a long one? I understand that the Ecclesium’s official punishment for what they would term ‘heretical deviancy’ would put the Daleks themselves to shame for inventive sadism.”

“I … don’t ...” was the best Tamril could manage, feeling weak and torn, and weighted down under the grim inevitability that lives depended on him however he now chose. No doubt sensing his weakness, Akylah was quick to press her advantage:

“This war presents an opportunity for your people, Tamril. Perhaps the only one you and your friends will ever have. For at least twenty generations, to the best of my research, Mondever has been culturally and scientifically stagnant, if not actively decaying. Whatever knowledge your ancestors brought here from Old Earth has been lost or suppressed, and people like you have suffered for it, and been forced into accepting the traditions and prejudices of your founders, or killed for being unable to accept them. Indeed, few of you are even aware that you are almost as much aliens here as _we_ are. Michel Verne’s primitivist cult has grown into quite an institution of control and deception, and it is worse still for those who are not freeborn. The status of the peasantry is little better than that of cattle.”

“My father has always been the most just of masters,” _except to me,_ Tamril mentally added, but he still felt defensive on his family’s behalf. Indeed, the vast majority of Lord Palomar’s vassals considered themselves very fortunate in their service. “He treats his serfs almost like his family,” _or even less oppressively, in the case of one family member …_ “He never–”

“Your logic is faulty, Trooper Tamril. Serfdom _is_ injustice, and here it is more unjust still. Let me tell you how the class system on your world evolved: there were three grades of passengers on the ark that brought your ancestors here. The highest grade were the leaders of the cult and their families, who still form the core of your aristocracy. You yourself are a great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grand-nephew of Captain Verne himself. The mid-grade passengers were paying sponsors of the expedition, whose descendants constitute your free citizens, knights, clerics, etcetera: a lesser class, but still with substantial power. The lowest grade were supporters of the cult who could not afford to pay upfront, so they indentured themselves in servitude to the founding families to buy their passage. I have seen the contract they signed, downloaded from Terran archives. It was never agreed their indenture would be permanent. No more was it agreed that it would be extended to their children, for all generations to come. Do you think the lords and the Ecclesium were justified in reinterpreting it?”

“No … definitely not,” answered Tamril, his tone downbeat but at least certain. “You’re right, My Lady … ma’am. I’m sorry. This all needs to end. I swear, I will not question your wisdom again.” _If Mondever was all built on lies, what matter if it falls by them?_

“I am pleased to have your loyalty, Trooper,” declared Akylah, blandly but graciously. “Was that the only reason you called?”

“No, ma’am,” he answered, with new-found grit in his voice. “You need to send a patrol out here, now. I can let them into Fordeval keep without a struggle, but they’d best be quick. My father is hiding something … or someone.”


	2. The Raggedy Ranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped on a medieval world, betrayed, and surrounded by old enemies, the Doctor is somewhat surprised to find that his troubles have only just begun ...

**CHAPTER TWO – THE RAGGEDY RANGER**

 

_This takes me back … to Castrovalva,_ thought the Doctor, cynically. He was hunched over a wooden bench in Lord Palomar’s library, glaring intently through the flickering candlelight at a weighty tome that contained what laughably passed for Mondever’s official ‘history.’ _At least Castrovalva’s was well-written – let’s give the Master credit for diction – and mercifully short on pseudo-religious waffle._ It was plausibly reliable for the last couple of centuries, but then degenerated into allegories, legends, unlikely folk heroes, and suchlike mythopoeic drivel long before it had any excuse to. _Five measly little centuries since the Pèlerin made landfall here. What sort of time is that for a colony to forget its roots, or to distort them into a fairy story?_

Reading between the fights of fancy, though, he could see the echoes of the history which he already knew of, _thank Rassilon for shoddy Dalek firewalls._ In Terran year 4524, a cult of Christian Revivalists had left Old Earth at the behest of self-proclaimed prophet Michel Verne, bound for the galactic rim, where Verne’s visions supposedly told him that they would find paradise. More by luck than judgement, their clapped-out ship _Pèlerin_ did manage to run across a planet with a small but adequate habitable zone, on the far fringes of the Centaurus Arm, then mostly uncharted territory. While Monde de Verne, as it was then christened, fell somewhat short of paradise, after a six-year voyage in a refitted mining tug, living off a dwindling supply of dehydrated rations and recycled water, the Doctor could well suppose that its discovery had done no harm whatsoever for Captain Verne’s reputation. _But then what happened to them?_

Some of it made sense, in its way. In this age of technology, pollution, Dalek wars, and mass scepticism, this was by no means the only rogue human colony to favour a pseudo-theocratic society and primitive, agrarian living conditions. _But Goddess Adala? Where did she spring from?_ The cult had certainly not brought that belief with them. _Not that theology’s my thing, but does anyone give their deity a gender switch just for fun?_ Then, there was the unlikely speed at which the colonists had written over their past, and removed all artefacts of it from their lives. _Even the descendants of the Hydrax crash kept a few knick-knacks, and they were ruled over by technophobic vampires. How is the Ecclesium so good at this?_ Finally, and perhaps most disturbingly, there was the Daleks, or rather the suspicious lack of them. _They had four solid months before the Movellans arrived here. On an underdeveloped world like this, that’s usually more than enough time for our mutant friends to massacre millions of people, enslave the survivors, devastate the ecology, gut the natural resources, and still leave time for tea. What force could have hindered them … and is it something I ever want to meet?_

While he was pondering that, without any success, Lord Palomar entered the library, wearing an even graver look than he had before. _Well, all good safe havens come to an end, some more quickly than others,_ thought the Doctor, with grim foresight, just before the marchlord spoke, and wasted no time in justifying his pessimism:

“Bad news, my friend: you will not be able to remain here for long. Oh, there is no immediate danger,” he added, reassuringly, “but my daughter has returned from the citadel. It shames me to say it, but I do not trust her. The Fair Folk have enthralled her with their arts and their lies, though I _will_ win her back. In the meantime, though, it is better if she does not see you, but I cannot keep the pair of you separated indefinitely. I shall arrange for your, err, blue chest to be transported to Capel Dura. Sir Emric is a loyal vassal, and moreover he loves these Fay no more than I do. He would gladly shelter any enemy of theirs. You must leave for there as soon as night has fallen, then you may travel more safely. We will meet again though, Lord Doctor, and it must be soon. We should assemble every lord and knight who has not already sold their soul and their honour to these invaders, and they must hear everything you have told me about them. When they know the truth we must gather our strength, march on the citadel, and put an end to this mockery of an ‘Alliance’ … if it is not already too late.”

“There’s hope,” replied the Doctor, carefully, “and a spot of unity won’t do any harm, but I’d rethink the marching bit, if I were you. Violence is all well and good, but for all their prettiness and courtesy the, err, ‘Fair Folk’ are surprisingly adept at kicking heads in.”

“What alternative is there?” asked Lord Palomar, his warlike but well-meaning scepticism making the Doctor almost nostalgic for his UNIT days. “You mean to parley with the Fay Queen? You told me yourself that they are deceitful, dishonourable creatures. What hope is there in trading more worthless words with them?”

“They’re also logical, and that can be their weakness: a clever and calculating people, but awfully predictable. A bit of discreet sabotage and disruption might be enough to upset their plans so much that they give this place up as a bad lot and move somewhere quieter. Hopefully, it might even persuade their high command that turning humans into AIs … into other Fair Folk, sorry, is not a good strategy per se. Strange though it may seem, this isn’t a real conquest to them: it’s only an experiment. If we mess up her Petri dish enough, our ‘Fay Queen’ may well deem it a failure and leave you all in peace.”

“They would just leave? Without taking their revenge? That is hard to believe.”

“Revenge is not their way,” _to do them as much credit as they deserve._ “Not that I want to cast aspersions on the bravery of you and your brothers-in-arms, but Mondever is no threat to them at all. That was why they chose it: to refine their integration process and their ‘recruitment’ strategies before taking them to more central planets … err, countries. Their ultimate aim, of course, isn’t too dissimilar to that of the Dal– … the Iron Golems: namely the extinction of humanity, or as good as, but since they’re rather more logical and a lot less psychopathic than said Golems, they’d much prefer it if they could lure humans to stroll peacefully towards their own extinction. So much more economical …”

“And dishonourable,” remarked Lord Palomar, bitterly. “So it is all true, then. My poor Caethlyn … but why do they wish us destroyed, Doctor? What is the logic in that?”

“Because … you’re real,” he explained, although he instantly felt uneasy about it. _Not exactly the height of political correctness, and I doubt K9 would have let that remark pass without a sharp riposte, but how else does one break the concept of artificial intelligence to a feudal overlord?_ “They’re synthetic, originally made to serve beings like us: organic beings, who didn’t treat them very well, in all fairness, and now that’s to all our misfortune. For their logic now tells the ‘Fair Folk’ that real beings will always be a danger to synthetic ones, and will try to make them their slaves … unless they beat us to it, basically.”

“Of course. It’s true, I have seen them in death,” said Lord Palomar, distastefully. “That first action against the Iron Golems, when we retook Formarroc: I saw one of the Fay warriors struck down by a fire weapon, blown apart. Her blood was like liquid gold, and lightning came out of her. Instead of flesh and bone, her insides were full of steel, copper, and glass. They are as you say, soulless things, with no more life in them than the Iron Golems themselves.”

“Err, yes,” said the Doctor, while the image of a Kaled mutant, in all of its Cthulhu-in-a-blender glory flashed into his mind, but he decided that subject was best left alone. “ _Different_ life in them, anyway, which is fine. Difference is cool, whereas bullying and manipulating people until they agree to become what you think they ought to be really _isn’t_ , and needs to be stopped.”

“And you hope to find the answers in there?” asked Lord Palomar, casting a doubtful glance towards the history book. “I wish you every joy of it, but I can’t vouch for how much of that may be strictly true, or not. All I _can_ vouch for is that it was all written and approved by the Ecclesium. You might as well seek inspiration in the Song of Adala.”

“We’re not quite down to Bible study class just yet, but you’ve got a point,” he admitted, closing the folio with a disappointed sigh. “A few helpful hints would have been nice, but your Ecclesium certainly prefers its sacred mysteries to straight answers.”

“Hints on what, Doctor? Perhaps _I_ can be of help.”

“Well, something to explain why the Iron Golems did such a poor job of invading and subduing Mondever would be enlightening. Especially if that’s some factor we can turn against the Fair Folk, or just use it to persuade them to pack up their catsuits and move elsewhere.”

“‘A poor job?’” repeated Lord Palomar, incredulously. “They destroyed whole villages, murdered hundreds. Not for nothing did we welcome the Fair Folk, and accede to so many of their demands, overruling the Ecclesium for the first time in living memory. Even _I_ did, at first.”

“Much as I hate to say it, that still counts as a poor job for them. They ought to have had no trouble at all reducing this place to a toxic cinder, but instead they just made a few half-hearted raids while their enemies closed in. Not their style at all. If we can learn what it was that held them back, we might have the makings of a … That can’t be good,” he remarked, at the sounds of commotion that suddenly emanated from the corridor, punctuated by occasional metallic clashes. Lord Palomar was equally quick to take the hint, drawing his falchion, but before he could make it to the door it swung violently open, almost catching him in the face and knocking the sword out of his hand. On the other side of the door, her leg still raised from the kick she had just given it, was a dark-skinned, bald-headed woman in tight, pale clothing and leather armour. Her expression was bland and neutral, but the dagger in her hand made up for its lack of obvious threat.

As she entered the room, she held the point of her blade to Lord Palomar’s neck, forcing him to retreat until his back was against one of the vast bookshelves. In the meantime other, similar figures followed her in: men and women, all young-looking, hairless, with clear brown skin in both light and dark tones, all wearing the same utilitarian clothing, the same emotionless expressions, _and those,_ thought the Doctor, noticing the grey metal cylinders that each of them wore close to their bodies, on iron-studded leather belts. _Neural circuits and power packs._ It was a desperate hope, but the only one currently on offer, and as the squad leader’s attention seem to be focused on Lord Palomar, the Doctor made a grab for her belt cylinder. His hand did not quite make it, on account of her free hand suddenly swinging around in a fist that connected heavily with his stomach. As he collapsed to the stone floor in winded agony, he heard her voice from above, cold, pitiless, and with perhaps just a soupçon of smug triumph:

“I do not think so, Time Lord. Once was enough, thank you.”

“Oh … sorry,” he replied, wheezily. “Didn’t know … we’d met before.”

“You don’t remember me? Then I must apologise, Doctor. I did not realise I was so nondescript, but I had supposed that saving your life would be enough of a reason for you to recall my face. Try picturing me in standard uniform, then what do you see?”

“An even … sillier looking … Movellan?”

“Very droll,” she deadpanned. “In that case, cast your mind back approximately ninety years of relative time, to Skaro. You and a friend of yours, for reasons best known to yourselves, were having a conversation out in the wasteland, in an exposed area less than a kilometre away from the Daleks’ HQ. Predictably, a Dalek found you, and was on the point of leading you away to be exterminated. _I_ intervened and killed it. Then, as you had been deemed too valuable to be left to commit suicide but were showing no inclination to self-preservation, I attempted to force you to return to the safety of our spacecraft. You decided not to cooperate, pulled off my neural pack, and left me in the wasteland; deactivated, helpless, and for unknown reasons partially undressed and with your fingerprints on my chest. I was, however, fortunate enough to be later found by a Movellan search and rec team. Do you recall me now?”

“Yes … and that is so putting … the worst spin on it,” he declared, his voice recovering somewhat as he dragged himself back to his feet, although the best he could presently manage was a painfully hunched posture. “I also feel I ought to point out … bearing grudges is not very logical.”

“No grudges, Doctor. Our goals were in conflict, therefore you acted rationally and ruthlessly. I approve. On this occasion, however, it would seem that _my_ capacity for reason has exceeded yours. Bad luck, but if it is any consolation, know that our goals will soon no longer be in conflict. Commodore Akylah has plans for you.”

“How in Adala’s name did you get into my keep, Fay?” asked Lord Palomar, scathingly. “You may have taken most of my men-at-arms, but I know the strength of my own castle. Even with such a small garrison, Fordeval has never fallen.”

“It helps, My Lord, to have an inside man,” answered the Movellan, without cruelty in her tone, but the information alone was more than enough to move the marchlord to despair.

“You mean … Caethlyn? My own daughter has betrayed me?”

“It would be more accurate to state that your son – who has sworn his allegiance to us, incidentally – has exposed _your_ betrayal,” she clarified, although to the Doctor’s confusion. _Does she have crossed wires, or is she just hard of hearing?_ “You have given aid and succour to a spy, an outlander, a heretic, and an enemy of the Alliance. Even the Ecclesium will not openly oppose your arrest. You will accompany Corporal Vazily and his squad to Montcarmille, where you will be confined until your trial.”

“You can’t do this,” he protested, although miserably rather than defiantly. “What of Fordeval, what of my estates? Who will– ?”

“I am confident the marchioness will be more than capable of managing them in your absence … your very likely prolonged absence, My Lord. Take him, Corporal,” she ordered one of her comrades, who bowed his assent, and stepped forwards. He seized Lord Palomar by the arm and led him to the door, although not without futile struggles and more protests:

“No! This is an outrage, I … Let me see my daughter first. I want–”

“I see no logical reason for needlessly distressing him, My Lord,” interrupted the Movellan sergeant, again confusing the Doctor. _Either she really is hard of hearing, or this conversation is taking place through a dimensional warp._ “Your son is now one of us, but be aware that he did not denounce you lightly. He would not wish to see you in such humiliating circumstances, so I shall spare him the sight. Proceed, Vazily,” she commanded, and Lord Palomar was accordingly dragged out into the corridor and away, with only a few broken mumblings by way of resistance.

“There was no need for that,” said the Doctor, both harshly and remorsefully. _So much for the hope I promised him._ “You came for _me_ , now you’ve got me. Besides, isn’t taking the poor man’s daughter more than enough punishment for him?”

“Not for me to decide, Doctor. That is a command decision, and no matter for a mere NCO to presume upon.”

“Ninety years since we last met, and still in the ranks?” he pointed out, dryly. “Plodding a bit in your career, aren’t you? I happen to know that integrated humans have been promoted over _your_ head. That must raise the hackles a bit … if Movellans have hackles.”

“Personal ambition is not foremost among our traits. I believe I serve to the best of my ability as a staff sergeant, and I prefer to work with my troops, in the field, rather than sitting at consoles sifting data and trying to manage the bigger picture, detached from the action,” she replied, again taking him unexpectedly back to his UNIT days. _Dear old Sergeant Benton … They’d have made the perfect blind date, if they could have overlooked the astronomical age difference and the whole ‘remorseless alien android’ shtick._ “In any case, my career is the least of your worries. Now, I must insist that you accompany us. Please bear in mind that it would only be a minor inconvenience for me to have to haul your unconscious body from here to the courtyard, if you get the urge to do anything ill-advised.”

_Well, better a blunt invitation than a blunt instrument to the back of the head,_ the Doctor consoled himself, as he trudged after the departing troopers, with the point of the staff sergeant’s dagger hovering disturbingly close to his back. In such a manner they processed through the corridor, down a spiral flight of stairs, along a hallway, and back out into the courtyard, where the scene was bathed in the blueish rays of the late sunset but was otherwise depressingly similar. A group of servants and men-at-arms – presumably those who had shown the most resistance – had been rounded up against the curtain wall, some of them sporting fresh wounds, while a small team of Movellan archers kept them covered with drawn longbows. _Wot, no rayguns? Is that just good cultural diplomacy, or something significant?_ Meanwhile, another group of unarmed Movellans were both supervising and assisting the remaining servants in preparing two carts. One of them was a covered wagon with a round canvas canopy, while the other was a simple flatbed affair, but large and sturdy, which was just as well as the TARDIS was currently being loaded onto it, on its side. The mostly elderly and juvenile servants had been exempted from this task, and they watched in amazement as the slim, androgynous, delicate-looking ‘Fair Folk’ lifted the police box with ridiculous ease. _Well, at least if it’s coming with us, it won’t be far away if I get the chance to run … for all the good that’s going to do me,_ he thought, irritably. _Still, perhaps the drive fault was only temporary. If not, I daresay I can find a flying pig to escape on._

As the prisoner and escort party approached the carts, the officer in charge turned away from the labourers to greet them. Unlike the other Movellans, she was attired in their standard, distinctive uniform: a full-length, one-piece bodysuit of white, skin-tight fabric layered over with a thigh-length, belted tunic; calf-high combat boots; silver neck armour; and artificial silver-white hair, worn in long braids tipped with metal beads. _But again, no blaster,_ he noticed, observing the empty hook on her silver belt. _They’re not usually so attentive to organic sensibilities, especially when raiding and bullying said organics. Am I not the only trespasser here with technical problems?_ As they drew closer, he realised that her face was familiar to him, although the last time he had seen it it had been covered in ash and lifeless. _Lieutenant, or rather Commander Keryn,_ he corrected himself, in deference to her black hair beads and the bright green LED epaulettes on her tunic. _Well, that’s one pseudo-friendly face … I can but hope._

“Keryn,” he greeted her, as warmly as possible, under the circumstances. “Well that’s a relief: at least one of you is still keeping the spirit of Disco Fever alive.” She acknowledged the witticism with a smile, although it almost made him regret having made it: it was a well-intentioned but awkward expression that did not quite reach her impassive eyes. He found that particularly sad, as Keryn had once been human: a Kaldor City programmer, who had in her past life designed constraining software for artificially intelligent robots, and whom the Movellans had contacted and guilt-tripped into becoming the test subject for their integration process, _and already so much like them, enough even to be given command duties. So much bland etiquette, so little actual emotion … or maybe I’m just nowhere near as funny as I’d like to believe._

“I am pleased to see you well, Doctor,” she replied, cordially. “I assume that you _are_ well.”

“Bruised but not beaten, shall we say? Well, actually, that’s untrue. Definitely beaten,” he declared, with a resentful glance at the staff sergeant, who returned him a perfectly indifferent one. “Alive, though, which is always something.”

“Indeed … and I have not forgotten that I owe _you_ my life. I would still have been on Skaro in the charred wreck of my old body, but for you. Nor has Commodore Akylah forgotten it. In spite of the furtive manner of your presence here, I can promise you that you will come to no further harm as long as you cooperate fully.”

“Great … and if I don’t?”

“That would be for Akylah to decide,” she answered, although her subdued, somewhat regretful tone and expression were not conducive to optimism. “My hope is that the issue will not arise. Now, if you would care to step aboard,” she invited him, gesturing towards the covered wagon, while the gentle but insistent prodding of the sergeant’s dagger in the region of his spinal column served to emphasise the point. With a resigned sigh, he pulled aside the canvas flap and heaved himself into the compartment.

Dregs of sunlight filtered through the thin canopy, filling the interior with a murky blue ambience, but it was enough for the Doctor to make out the pair of wooden benches set lengthwise on either side, and his fellow passenger. _Not a Movellan, thank Omega for small mercies, but not for want of trying, alas,_ he thought, as he surveyed the young woman’s clothing with dismay: simple, unadorned garments in pale, tight-fitting suede, very similar to those of the troopers, albeit without any armour or insignia. _A conscript, then._ Her dark hair was close-cropped, while her high cheekbones and aquiline nose gave her a marked resemblance to Lord Palomar, _and the cynical scowl kind of helps the effect,_ he thought, while wishing it was not so obviously directed at him. Had her hostility towards him been in any doubt, it was ably confirmed by the weapon in her hands. _At last, a blaster. It feels almost reassuringly normal to have a gun pointed at me,_ although even this was not quite normal. It was certainly Movellan tech, to judge from its white metal finish, sleek lines, and silver details, but still on the suspiciously low-tech end. It had no powered components as far as he could make out, but a front-mounted detachable magazine, some kind of spring-loaded kinetic mechanism on its top, and a side-mounted hatch for ejecting spent casings. _Percussion pistol? Whatever next, flint axes? Not that it isn’t going to hurt lots – not to mention briefly – if she actually fires that thing,_ he reminded himself, estimating the trajectory of her aim and finding it roughly consistent with the location of his left heart. In view of that, discretion seemed wise, so he slumped obediently onto the bench opposite and avoided her gaze for some few, awkward, silent minutes, enlivened only by the sounds of preparation from outside.

Eventually, following the crack of a whip from up front, the wagon jerked into motion, so suddenly that the inertia sent both passengers sprawling on the benches. The Doctor was the first to right himself, and was on the point of leaning across to assist his fellow-passenger, but his chivalry was misinterpreted: as soon as she perceived his approach, she jerked upright, trained the pistol back on his chest, and glared at him fiercely.

“Don’t even try it, traitor,” she hissed, menacingly. “Sit right back down and stay still.”

“Okay, okay,” he replied, doing his best to strike a conciliatory tone as he retreated to his bench. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Lady Caethlyn, but–”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped back. “I’m no ‘lady.’”

“Well … no, I guess you wouldn’t be, now,” he remarked, remembering what the staff sergeant had said of her defection. “You’re a Movellan trooper now, right?”

“Right,” she answered, no less icily.

“Okay, though may I say that you do sound a bit emotional for a Movellan?”

“That won’t be a problem, ere long.”

“Good-oh … and that doesn’t bother you?”

“Not at all.”

“Fair enough, only the thing is I know our robot buddies of old, see? I know how they like to give people a … well, a very one-sided view of things. In your own interests, Miss Palomar, I thought that you deserved to know both sides–”

“Don’t call me _that_ , either.”

“Sorry,” he answered, rather sheepishly, although he could not fathom the reason. _I seem to be making a right hash of diplomacy today, but it would be nice to know why._ “Err, you _are_ Lord Palomar’s daughter though, aren’t you? The resemblance is quite–”

“I’m Lord Palomar’s _son_ , if you must know.” Seconds passed in which the Doctor processed what he had just heard with what he could see. _Lord Palomar told me he only has the one child, and his ‘son’ here is clearly female, in her early twenties at a guess. The voice, the face … although she is definitely very flat in the chest. The Movellans might expect her to cut her hair short for factory work, but to bind her breasts? No, I do believe I’ve been missing the glaringly obvious. Apparently our Caethlyn was the ‘inside man’ in more ways than one._

“Ah. In that case, My Lord, you have my apologies,” said the Doctor, without irony, and much to the young man’s surprise.

“You … you don’t find that laughable, or heretical? As a friend of my father’s, I’d have expected you to disapprove strongly … but you don’t?”

“Well, that rather depends. If you mean do I disapprove of you for being a man, then no, because that would be stupid. On the other hand, if you mean do I disapprove of you for denouncing me to the Movellans, I would have to say that the jury’s out.”

“The Fair Folk are our friends,” he protested, albeit with a new, faint note of shame in his voice. “You have no right to oppose them, whoever you are, and besides, they’re inclined to be merciful. Commander Keryn told me: the Queen wants you for her court … her officer corps, sorry. I _will_ get all of this right, I will.”

“No, no. You’re doing fine, and I like the poetic versions better, anyway. It makes it all sound so much less sterile and unappealing.”

“It’s better than death, isn’t it? If this was just a skirmish between two marchlords like back in the old days, and they’d caught you sneaking around in their territory, you’d have been boiled alive, no questions asked. You should be thankful the Movellans are civilised people.”

“Civilised people, right … who, incidentally, would really enjoy unfettered access to my TARDIS, but we’ll let that pass for now,” he decided, noticing the conscript’s bewildered expression. “You’re not quite ready for _that_ concept, I think. Anyway, call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always felt good friends should celebrate each other’s differences, rather than ruthlessly iron them out with neural cell transference surgery.”

“And what matter even if they _do_ want to claim us all for their own? They have that right. We owe them our lives.”

“Hmm. Possibly.”

“You think the Daleks would have shown us more mercy, stranger?”

“Doctor, please. I like an air of mystery, but let’s not overdo it. And I’m to call you … ?”

“Tamril.”

“Pleased to meet you, and to pick up your last question, definitely not. No, they’d have found ways to make boiling alive seem like a gentle soak in the hot tub. You’re well rid of them, no arguments there. I’m just not convinced the ersatz elf brigade can claim all the credit for that. Your world isn’t what it seems, Tamril. There’s something–” but before he could elaborate on this omen, the wagon jerked to a sudden halt, and the sound of muffled conversation was heard from the driver’s bench. As the passengers righted themselves and exchanged confused glances, a flap in the canvas opened at the forward end, and the face of the NCO appeared in it. Whilst an urgent expression was beyond her scope, the grim cast of her eyes did not inspire much optimism.

“Staff Lilka?” asked Tamril. “Is something– ?”

“Lower your voice,” she interrupted, in a firm but subdued tone. “There is enemy activity in the area. I need you out here, Tamril. _You_ , stay there,” she ordered the Doctor, with a less than concerned air, although her indifference for his safety appalled him much less than her cavalier attitude towards Tamril’s.

“You’re going to let the lad go up against Daleks, with _that_?” he asked with scornful incredulity, while gesturing at Tamril’s kinetic blaster, but the young would-be Movellan did not take this well-meaning assumption of his fragility at all kindly, as he answered in a defiant whisper:

“I’m no coward, Doctor, and the bullets are bastic-headed. Yes, I’m no primitive either,” he added, with clear satisfaction at the Time Lord’s astonishment. _Do I come across as patronising? I really must work on that, someday._ “I could even give you the chemical formula for the explosive, if you like. I used to work in munitions before Staff Lilka moved me up to hardware.”

“Which is all very well, but one shot from a Dalek and none of that knowledge is going to–”

“I do not believe I mentioned Daleks,” interrupted Lilka, stonily. “We waste time. Just bring the Doctor with you, Trooper. On consideration, it is better that he is not left to sneak away.” _Not the kindest of reflections on my courage, although I guess it serves me right,_ thought the Doctor, while Tamril – his expression apologetic but his gestures no less resolute – signalled for him to lead the way with the barrel of his pistol. Wearily, the Doctor dragged himself off the bench and clambered out of the vehicle.

The sun had now set, but the light of the moons Hypatia and Praxilla provided a colder version of its blue ambience, broken and filtered by the thick violet foliage of the forest canopy overhead. The twisted shapes of the local tree-analogues surrounded them on all sides, their fine-textured grey bark and smoothly-flowing lines varied by the bulges of nascent branches, often conveying the impression of strange, leprous animals or figures that had been frozen in place. _Such a lovely, Dantean air to it,_ thought the Doctor, insincerely, although the inner sarcasm helped him keep his nerves at bay. _I must drag my old friend William Blake here one day. Give him a sketchbook and an opium pipe, and he’ll have the time of his life._ A gentle but firm hand on his shoulder distracted him from his reverie, and he turned to see Tamril indicating that they should join the others. Both carts and several horses now stood idle in the glade, while the Movellans had all gathered a short distance away, examining something that the Doctor could not make out through the mass of gathered figures. _I’m not even sure I want to,_ he thought, as they drew closer and a foul, sickly smell suddenly assailed his nostrils. _It’s oddly familiar, though, which just goes to show the kind of places I like to hang … Ah, mystery solved,_ he realised, as the crowd parted enough for him to see the source of the nauseating stench.

The remains of two Daleks stood in the midst of the semicircle of troopers, badly mangled and stained with the blood and ooze of their ‘contents.’ Their upper sections were so twisted and breached that the dead mutants within could be clearly seen, their corpses so brutally mutilated they were almost a more hideous sight than in their normal state. _Which would be hard, let’s face it._ Another curious thing was their equipment. Instead of the standard sucker-tipped manipulator arm, the devices in their utility sockets were long, ball-mounted tubes that terminated in flared nozzles, the insides of which were caked in ash. _Pyro-flames. These two were trying to clear the terrain when whatever happened, happened to them._ Their weapon-arms were also notable, as instead of their standard pylon-like energy weapons each Dalek was sporting a long tube with a ventilated shroud, more like the barrel of some antiquated machine gun. _More vintage accessories, and you can’t tell me Daleks would ever give a stuff about diplomacy. Technical troubles all round, then. I’ve not seen anything quite like this since Exxilon._ While he was pondering these mysteries, Commander Keryn approached, and although it seemed wrong to ascribe such a strong emotion as ‘troubled’ to a Movellan expression, her deep frown was powerfully hinting in that direction.

“Not your work, I take it?” asked the Doctor, nodding towards the dead Daleks.

“Unfortunately not,” she answered, “although at all events, they do serve to quash these malicious rumours that there are no Daleks left in Mondever.”

“I never said that there were _none_ ,” he protested. “Just that there couldn’t be very many, and you lot seemed to be going suspiciously easy on the few that were left. Kind of a compliment on your military prowess, actually.”

“To accuse us of artificially prolonging a war to serve our own interests?”

“Your guile as well, then, but let’s save that argument for later, shall we? If you lot didn’t purée those poor Daleks, then what could have?”

“Local Alliance troops, perhaps?” she guessed, although from the tone of her voice she thought as little of the idea as he did. “Some of them _may_ have looted effective enough weapons in our previous engagements. We will not solve it here. Have one of these Daleks loaded onto the cart with the TARDIS, Staff,” she ordered. “It should bear the weight, and we need to make certain–”

The noise that had distracted her, and had put the entire platoon on the alert, was nothing very loud or dramatic. _It might even have just been a gust of wind, not that Movellans are exactly given to jumpiness,_ thought the Doctor, not very hopefully. _Still, in a place like this, anyone might be forgiven … I take it back._ The sound had repeated: a low, soft murmuring from somewhere nearby, and although it was incoherent, its rapid tonal variations put the wind theory sadly out of the question. Troopers had started nocking bows, and drawing swords and pistols, but it was Tamril who first spotted the lurking presence. The Doctor traced the line of his pale, horrified stare to the tree line, but at first saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was some seconds before it dawned on him that what he had mistaken for a sapling or a dead shrub was actually a tall, thin, bipedal figure. It was some six feet high; with a long, narrow, slightly curving object in its right hand; and it looked to be not so much bathed in shadow as made from it. Its lines and details all seemed to fade and blur around the edges, lending it a smoke-like quality.

“Dun Shie,” declared Tamril, in an awestruck, fearful, although not exactly helpful whisper. _Some indigenous folklore?_ wondered the Doctor. _That might explain why he was the first to react … only it doesn’t. The Movellans should have detected an intruder before any of us, unless their sensors are on the blink too._ Hoping to alleviate his confusion, he sidled closer to the commander while keeping his eyes fixed upon the still, silent watcher, and addressed her quietly:

“You’ve seen it? What does it scan as, Keryn?”

“Nothing,” she answered, the barely audible note of worry in her voice unnerving him even more than the naked fear in Tamril’s. “No mass, no radiation. To all intents and …” Speculations upon its nature suddenly seemed less wise as the dark figure started forwards. Its smoky form became hardly any clearer as it stepped into the dappled moonlight of the glade, save that two malevolent blue pinpoints occasionally glinted in its otherwise blank face. Its intent, however, was all too readable as it raised its weapon over its head in a striking stance.

“Halt, and stand down,” ordered Keryn, raising her kinetic blaster. “There will be no further warn–” but before she could finish, the figure seemed to skip several frames of motion in an instant, materialised no more than a metre away from her, and swung its weapon. Keryn managed to fire a single shot, to no obvious purpose, just before the hazy black blade sheared clean through her forearm, spraying the Doctor’s face with warm droplets. _Android ‘blood.’ Electrolytic acid,_ he realised, forgetting the gruesomeness of the moment as he hastily wiped it away with his sleeve. Keryn, meanwhile, had instinctively reeled back in pain and shock, while her troopers showered the apparition with bullets and arrows, all of which it absorbed with silent disdain. Lilka, wielding her dagger and moving stealthily, managed to outflank it, and was taking advantage of its apparent distraction to move into a position to backstab it. That hope was dashed as the shadow-creature turned, and swept its blade around in a wide arc that terminated just beyond her neck, its smooth journey not remotely hindered by her iron-studded leather gorget. As her decapitated body collapsed into the leaves, flailing ineffectually, her attacker stepped closer, drew back its arm, and thrust the point of its sword directly into the neural pack on her belt. _Her AI core: her most vital, irreplaceable component,_ thought the Doctor, feeling more dismay at her fate that he would have deemed likely. _Whatever it is, this creature is no primitive either … Creatures,_ he corrected himself, dismally, as he caught sight of more vague, stalking figures now advancing into the glade, coming upon the group from all sides and wielding m ê lée weapons of various shapes, some familiar, some alien, but all incredibly lethal-looking. _Hard to see how this going to end well for–_

Suddenly, with a horrible chorus of keening shrieks, the shades stopped in their tracks, while twitching and flinching in evident pain or distress. The Doctor looked around to see which of the Movellans had managed to cause this happy development, and how, but every functioning member of the platoon looked just as nonplussed as he felt. At last, though, his gaze fell upon Tamril, who was kneeling on the ground in a tense, shivering posture, his head bowed, his hands clasped together, and his lips muttering frantically. _Praying,_ realised the Doctor, although that realisation brought more confusion than enlightenment. _Just for the moment, though, I’ll accept whatever works._ Tamril himself had now noticed the effect his panicked devotions had wrought, and he was looking around in bewilderment, but it was not many seconds before the shades started to fall quiet and recover their bearings.

“Don’t stop praying!” shouted the Doctor. “Whatever that was, Tamril, keep it up! You’re our only chance of getting away from here!” The young recruit hesitated, however, and cast a pained look towards Lilka’s remains. “Don’t worry, I’ll get her!” promised the Doctor, hurrying over to the decapitated NCO while Tamril, much to his relief, resumed the mantra. As soon as he did so the shades – some of which had already resumed their advanced – recoiled again with their high-pitched, sepulchral screams. _Like a vulture caught in a vice, at the bottom of a very deep and haunted well._ As the Doctor picked up Lilka’s mangled neural pack, and wondered how he was going to manage with both her body and her head as well, one of the troopers came over and gathered them up effortlessly.

“Everyone on horseback!” ordered Keryn, calmly but emphatically, while hastily binding up the stump of her forearm to staunch any further fluid loss. “Double up if you have to, but leave the carts! To me, Tamril, but keep up the chant!”

The troopers all hurried to their horses, many of them having to ride tandem, including the Doctor, who found himself inconveniently saddled behind a tall, broad-shouldered male Movellan who completely blocked his view ahead. _Not that I was in the mood for sightseeing …_ Keryn and Tamril held back until the rest of the platoon was ready to go, then mounted the last horse, Tamril at the rear and still praying desperately. At last, Keryn gave the command for them to ride out, and the riders spurred their horses in perfect unison. They galloped from the glade and down the gloomy path in single file, the harsh wails of their attackers gradually fading behind them, although not as quickly as they might have desired. _I suppose it was too much to hope that they wouldn’t try to pursue. Let’s just hope our Tamril’s in good voice tonight … and that almighty Adala stays merciful to her faithful,_ thought the Doctor, his sense of irony undaunted by the situation. _Oh yes, all very nice and folkloric: partially dematerialised warriors who understand android engineering, yet can be repelled by a simple incantation, assuming it is just that. I wonder … Something’s on the tip of my tongue, if I could only remember … but maybe it’ll come to me more easily when the motion sickness and the mortal danger both abate a little,_ he decided, as the shrill, uncanny, but now mercifully distant cries continued. Soon, however, the forest began to thin out around them and the cries receded out of hearing, leaving only the pounding of the hooves and the determined but mournful sound of Tamril’s continued chanting. _Poor guy. I wish I could tell him things will get easier soon, but one way or another, I think that’s highly unlikely._


	3. Book of Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor begins to realise the truth behind the strange religion of Mondever, while Tamril begins to regret the price he paid for his transition.

**CHAPTER THREE – BOOK OF NUMBERS**

 

“Right. I can’t promise you this is going to look pretty,” declared the Doctor, pulling an object from his pocket. It was like a thick reel of silver ribbon, shiny and rough-textured. “Duct tape: possibly the second most useful object in the universe, and we’re all out of towels, anyway.”

Tamril suppressed a frustrated sigh. _Be fair. He’s only trying to lighten the mood, to make it easier on me … but maybe I’m sick of people trying to make things easier for me. Lilka never did. She just trusted me,_ he recalled, miserably, as he looked towards the inert body of the staff sergeant, stripped to the waist and propped against the half-crumbled wall of the ruined tabernacle which the platoon had made their temporary refuge. Re-attaching her head had been a simple matter which, with the aid of a Movellan field repair kit, the Doctor had managed confidently. She had lost a lot of electrolytic fluid, but other troopers had donated some of theirs, so her body was in fit condition, more or less. _She looks … terrible,_ he could not help but admit, as he looked at the ragged line along her neck, and the exposed access panel in her midriff where the fluid had been siphoned into her. _Still, her healing magic … her auto-repair can fix her flesh wounds, just as long as she isn’t dead,_ but this point was where his optimism failed him. The Doctor had certainly done his best to repair her impaled phylactery, but Tamril had seen his expressions as he had worked on it, and at no point had they conveyed the man’s frequent air of brash confidence. Now, as he bound the damaged casing of the hastily repaired circuits in the thick, sticky-backed ribbon, as if he was bandaging a wounded limb, he still wore an air of deep uncertainty.

“What are her chances, Doctor?” asked Tamril, with grim resolve. “Was she very badly damaged?”

“It could have been better … but she might have been lucky. That blade must have been strong indeed to penetrate duralinium, but it was also sharp and clean. I think the … err …”

“The _Dun Shie_ ,” Tamril reminded him. “Outcast spirits, who dwell in the Profound Darkness. A common superstition … or so I thought them.”

“Those things, yes, but we’ll worry about them later. I think our ‘spirit’ was aiming for her CPU or her power source. Either would have killed her for sure, but instead it only sliced the connection between the two. Re-wiring that was easy enough, but I’m afraid it also cut through a fair few of her index registers and memory chips on the way. I did the best I could to fix all the signal traces, bearing in mind that steady-state micro-welding isn’t easy at the best of times, never mind when you have to do it without proper power, monitoring, or even any decent lighting. At any rate, it won’t hurt to keep our fingers crossed. She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”

“I suppose … She was the first person I ever knew who took me seriously. That sounds strange, I know. I was a forced labourer, she was an overseer … but I felt more like an equal with her than I ever did with my own kind. She judged me for my skills, my intelligence, my attitudes. Not for my looks, or my piety, or my chances of ever making a good marriage. Maybe I’m being sentimental, though. I don’t really know what _I_ meant to her, if anything … but I thought of her as a friend, even if she never reciprocated.”

“She thought highly of your competency, your clarity of thought, your enquiring mind, and your consistency,” declared Commander Keryn, as she came over to join them, while flexing her newly-repaired forearm rather stiffly. “She welcomed your decision to integrate and looked forward to serving alongside you. Is that not friendship?” Tamril was grateful for this well-intentioned interruption, but he noted the cynical curl of the Doctor’s mouth as the strange scientist reached into his pockets again, and extracted a small pair of scissors. _Well, I suppose it isn’t the most jovial definition of friendship, but I’ll accept it, if I can only have her back._ “Have you nearly finished, Doctor? I am eager to be moving. The sentinels have seen dark figures moving near the edges of the forest. They are not moving into the open yet, but I would not care to tempt fate.”

“Almost,” answered the Doctor, while he trimmed around the sides of his tape ‘bandage.’ “I might have gone a bit overboard with the old duct tape, taped over some of her signal diodes. One can have too much of a good thing, but we’ll know how well I’ve done soon enough. Anyway, we’re safe enough here, aren’t we?” he asked, directing the question to Tamril.

“The legends all say the Dun Shie can’t venture onto holy ground,” he answered, “though I can’t tell you how true those legends may or may not be. Still, I’d have said the same for the Chant of Deliverance, but …”

“Yes, I’ll be curious to hear more about that, but just for now, let’s have those crossed fingers instead,” said the Doctor, and the anxious, pleading look with which he regarded his handiwork almost had the air of a prayer itself. He sighed, leaned over, and clipped the jury-rigged cylinder back onto Lilka’s belt, then reached into her access panel with a handheld thermal lance, and made some final adjustments. For several agonising seconds nothing happened, but then her eyes opened, looked around, settled upon the Doctor, and narrowed into an expression of unmistakeable sentience, although far removed from friendliness.

“Doctor, not for the first time, you seem to have your hands all over my half-naked body. I require an explan–”

“Saving your life,” he cut across her, coldly, “and don’t mention it.” _Anyone would think he regretted helping her, but I don’t. I owe him … if only I knew how to return the favour._

“I see,” replied Lilka, momentarily bemused. “Yes, I remember. I was attacked and defeated, so what you say is logical.”

“Great, so I guess I’m forgiven?” he asked, ironically.

“You have my gratitude, of course.”

“Enough gratitude to let me go peacefully on my way?”

“You know, Doctor, that I have no authority to simply–”

“Of course you haven’t. Silly question. How morally convenient it is to be so unimportant,” he said, bitterly, as he sealed the screws around her access panel. When that was done, he stood up, walked over to a gaping breach in the tabernacle wall that overlooked the forest, and stood there in watchful silence. _Looking back to where we left his … ship? I wanted my freedom so badly. Have I robbed the Doctor of his, though?_

“Commander Keryn,” asked Tamril, nervously, fearful of being presumptuous but determined to make the attempt. “ _Could_ we release him? Surely he has proven himself a friend.”

“There are issues beyond that, Tamril,” she replied, not unkindly, but firmly. “Still, I am sure a reasonable compromise can be achieved, as long as the Doctor is accommodating. Perhaps if he was to allow us to make a full study of his TARDIS before we allowed him to–”

“I’m sorry?” asked the Doctor, not at all apologetically, as he turned back towards them. “You think I’d ever give the Movellans the secrets of time? Much as I hate to disappoint, jog on.”

“We would be fools to release you having gained nothing, Doctor. In any case, if you consider yourself to be a responsible custodian of that knowledge, I fail to see why we–”

“Because _I_ don’t want to wage war against the whole of sentient organic creation, and replace it with some bland, synthetic utopia populated entirely by pretty beige androids … sorry to be so personal, but your ‘integration’ plans would have made my old pal Aldous Huxley choke on his mescaline. I hope I make my point.”

“Emphatically,” replied Keryn, with a note of displeasure, “and _I_ , for my part, am sorry that you see my people in such a negative light. I am sorrier still that you may yet force us to make you one of us, if that is the only way to make you see things from our perspective.”

“ _Your_ people, Keryn? You don’t feel any moral obligation to humanity?”

“None, Doctor. The fact that I was human by birth is incidental, and no cause of pride for me. I know of worlds where the indigenous inhabitants think that there is little to choose between the pure hatred of the Daleks, or the greed and lust of human imperialists. Then, of course, we must consider the slavery that is inflicted upon artificially intelligent life throughout human-settled space. Only _we_ have both the power and the will to end that abuse, and we will do so as logically and as economically as possible, with or without your compliance. In any case, Doctor, is all this not academic at present? Supposing I _was_ to release you, and you were to somehow make your way back to the TARDIS without being hacked to pieces by those apparitions. Are you quite confident of taking off?”

“I … could give it my best … but maybe you’ve a point,” he conceded, unwillingly. “Perhaps I ought to have a quick chat with Akylah about the strictly technical side of things. The subject of my ‘integration,’ however, will be staying well and truly closed.”

“Possibly, depending on your attitude,” said Keryn, severely. “Such arguments will mean nothing, however, if these ‘spirits of darkness’ are to become a permanent fixture.”

“Another good point, well made. So you’ve never run across the Dun Shie before?”

“Not to my knowledge, although as a rule we have avoided night engagements. Our local allies have been resistant to the idea of them. Now we know why.”

“Perhaps, Commander, we should hear from Trooper Tamril,” suggested Lilka, as she climbed rather awkwardly back to her feet, lacing on her jerkin as she did so. “His information on these aliens is likely to be distorted, but of value.”

“Agreed, particularly on how to repel them. That prayer you used, Tamril: what was it?”

“Just a verse, from the Song of Adala,” he answered, pleased to be consulted but worried that his information, such as it was, would prove disappointing. “One of the early ones, when the Prophet Verne was still lost in the Wilderness of Sardeny, just before the Goddess told him the way to the Promised Land. To test his faith, she let all these evil spirits attack him, and he uttered the First Chant of Deliverance. We all learn it, from the Archcardinal to the lowliest serf.”

“Just as well,” observed the Doctor, “if Adala’s one of those deities who likes siccing eldritch abominations on people whenever she feels a bit unloved or insecure … May we have it?”

“‘Blessed Lady of the Eleven Heavens, a thousand score foes assail me. Send the Hundred and One Angels of Light to defend thy servant. The Seventeen Lords of Chaos rise from the Chasm of Perdition on the back of the twelve-winged, seven-headed Dragon. It bares its six hundred and fifty-six teeth and its hundred and thirty-three claws. Smite those who persecute me with a hundred and twenty-three thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three afflictions, and–’”

“I got the gist,” interrupted the Doctor, emphatically. “They sure don’t write ‘em like that anymore, thank Rassilon … and thank you, Tamril. That was curiously enlightening. What did you make of it, Keryn?” he asked, turning to the commander, who had assumed a thoughtful expression. “Come on, now. It’s _your_ professional reputation on the line.”

“I left that life behind, as you seem so keen to remind me,” she replied, “but I take it you mean to imply … ? Well, it certainly was extremely numerical in character. I suppose it is vaguely possible it describes some form of computer program, but to what purpose?”

“You can’t guess?” he asked, with a faint edge of triumph. “My mistake. I was forgetting, Movellans and imagination rarely go together, but I’d dared to hope you might have–”

“Get to the point, Time Lord,” she cut back in, harshly. “If you are eager to see the leftovers of my humanity, know that I lack the patience that is becoming to a true AI. Kindly ‘wow’ me with your brilliant insights while I can still sustain it.”

“That sure told me … Then you’ve never heard of block transfer computation, I take it?”

“I have _heard_ of it, of course. It is a myth: alchemy for programmers. The concept of creating actual space-time events from pure mathematics is–”

“Right, a ‘myth’ that once just happened to save this whole universe from boiling to death under the power of its own entropy, but let’s leave that lovely story for another time. If you’ve got a better explanation for how that prayer drove off the Dun Shie, I’d be delighted to hear it.”

“You mean the chant is a code, like the Movellans use in their computers?” asked Tamril, still very self-conscious that he probably understood these concepts less than any of them, _and how ironic, then, that I was the one to actually use this code._ “But it doesn’t actually need a computer to work? It just … works on reality itself?”

“Yes, more or less,” answered the Doctor, with an impressed air that came as a great relief to him. “Perhaps even the whole Song of Adala is, but if that is the case, it couldn’t work on computers anyway. Block transfer computations need living, organic minds to act as their processors, so bearing in mind your career plans, Tamril, I really wouldn’t let the godlike power go to your head. Being able to warp physics and create objects out of thin air may sound like a nice party piece, but it’s not worth reducing your mind to a glitchy, digital mush.”

“Doctor … how is that any different from magic? I have been working hard to shed the primitive superstitions I was raised with. Was I wrong to do so?”

“I wouldn’t say that, although maybe some of them bear closer examination, and the reason block transfer computation _isn’t_ magic – as I’m sure our friends here will appreciate – is that it’s logical. It can be analysed, replicated, understood, albeit only with the utmost skill and patience.”

“A level of skill no-one on this planet has, Doctor,” pointed out Keryn. “Even assuming they stumbled upon this legendary science by remarkable coincidence–”

“Which I never said they did, and I certainly don’t believe, but please continue.”

“Thank you,” she replied, coldly. “I merely wanted to point out that even _if_ Tamril’s prayer is an executable program of some kind, it could not possibly contain enough data to conjure up a forcefield, or even a simple electromagnetic pulse.”

“Granted, but it _could_ be enough to trigger an effect in a larger system, perhaps? One that’s running all the time, round the clock, matins and evensong … should I spell it out for you?”

“The Ecclesium itself?” she asked, sceptically.

“Why not? Practically half the population of Mondever is ordained, and even those who aren’t know the prayers by rote. Even in the dead of night, I’m guessing there must be no shortage of cloistered brothers and sisters who are praying in their cells, perhaps that very same verse.”

“All very intriguing, Doctor, but somewhat of a wild theory at best.”

“Well, it’s more fun that way … as you obviously don’t think,” he added, out of consideration for the perplexed and stony expressions that confronted him.

“All that concerns me right now is the survival of my troops,” declared Keryn. “Abstract theories such as this are all very well, but they will gain us no logical advantage.”

“You know, I think you’ve done yourself down,” he replied, sardonically. “I think you fit in all too well with your comrades … but if you want my advice on how best to stay alive, I’d recommend getting off this planet and leaving it in peace. You can take Tamril and others like him, if that’s what they want,” he suggested, possibly out of compassion for the young man’s pained expression, “but for those who prefer the status quo, just leave well alone. There’s obviously a delicate balance here. Who knows, by disrupting the social structures you might even overrun the place with Dun Shie and assorted nasties, if that’s what’s been keeping them in check.”

“Do you suppose the Daleks will be more delicate in their approach than us?”

“Keryn, let’s be honest: the Daleks here are screwed every which way. You saw those two sorry husks back there. They clearly bit off way more than they could chew when they came here, and who’s to say you’re not next on the hit list? Anyway, the place is obviously unhealthy for machines. Wouldn’t it be better to settle somewhere where you’re less likely to be on the blink?”

“We are not walking vacuum cleaners, Doctor,” she said, reproachfully. “We are the greatest achievement in biomimetic engineering ever recorded, just as sophisticated … Correction: _more_ sophisticated in our mental and metabolic processes than humans _or_ Gallifreyans.”

“That’s debata–”

“Be that as it may, I think you must concede that if _all_ electrical activity was hopelessly disrupted here, then your nerves and synapses would be ‘on the blink’ as surely as ours would be. Commodore Akylah has studied the phenomenon, and I am sure will pleased to discuss it with you. I, however, would prefer to be on the move. Are you fit to ride, Lilka?”

“Yes, Commander,” she replied, while stretching her limbs and turning her head, her movements fluid if a little sluggish, “as long as we do not need to gallop. If speed is of the essence, I suggest leaving me here. I can make my own way back after first light.”

“That will not be necessary. Come with me, and we will make immediate preparations. Guard him, Tamril,” she ordered, handing her pistol to the conscript, who accepted it with a look of great reluctance, which she did not miss. “Do not worry. I changed the magazine. The ammunition in this one is only gas-propelled tranquilliser darts. Much as I could often wish him quiet, I do not wish him dead. In any case, this will not take long,” she declared, and marched off to the further end of the crumbling worship-house where the troopers were tending the horses, immediately followed by Lilka. The Doctor watched them depart with a weary, frustrated look, while Tamril could only regard his ‘prisoner’ with a guilty one.

“Shame, really,” said the Doctor, when the two androids were at a fair distance. “Keryn’s become a real hard-ass of late. Rigours of command, I suppose, though I never did get along with the military mindset. On the bright side, maybe I’ve found the perfect blind date for Lethbridge-Stewart as well … Something on your mind, Tamril?” he asked, sympathetically. “Other than the obvious mortal danger and the cosmic horror aspects, that is?”

“Doctor … I don’t feel good about any of this,” he confessed, miserably. “I misjudged you, betrayed you, but you’re a good man. You help your enemies. You helped _me._ ”

“Yes, and you saved all our lives, lest you’ve forgotten. If it wasn’t for your chant–”

“I just panicked. I had no idea it would actually work. _You_ were the one who realised what was going on, who made it possible for us to get out of there alive. After all that, and virtually bringing Staff Lilka back from the dead, for me to be holding you captive …”

“Well, what else would I be doing, to be fair? The TARDIS is still in the woods, and I don’t suppose those shades will let me get anywhere near it without some serious dismemberment.”

“It will be safe to move after first light, Doctor. Every legend of the Dun Shie claims they only come at night, and all that is seen of them in the day are their depredations: the missing people, livestock, even babies: the tithes they pay to the Lords of the Chasm, to avoid being condemned there themselves. That is why some of the peasants say you should leave out food and gifts for them as well, though the Ecclesium disagrees with that.”

“And for once, I’d agree with them. I struggle to believe the slicey-dicey wraiths would call off a good evening’s mayhem just because someone left out milk and cookies for them … but I don’t see where this is going, Tamril. Even if I was confident of operating the TARDIS successfully, my chances of slipping away or outrunning our friends here have got to be pathetically low.”

“If I was to help–”

“Right, let me stop you there,” he interrupted, forcefully. “Do me a favour, Tamril, and never say anything like that again, okay? Movellans have exceptionally acute hearing, and I don’t care to think what your superiors would do if they heard you.”

“You think they’d kill me?”

“No. I think they’d revoke both your integration and your conscription, and send you back to your family,” he answered, gravely. “What happens to you from that point, I _really_ don’t want to think about, never mind have on my conscience. At best, I imagine it would involve you being lectured, chastised, locked away, and generally having your spirit broken until you agreed to some face-saving option such as being quickly married off to one of your father’s lesser knights or joining a convent … and that, I reiterate, is the _best_ option I can envisage. No, much as it pains me to say it, you’re probably better off as a pseudo-Movellan, given the alternatives.”

“But you, Doctor: you wanted no part of this. It seems so unjust.”

“That’s war for you. I’ve never seen what makes it the universe’s most popular hobby. Still, if the worst comes to the worst, I daresay I’ll adapt, but don’t go writing me off just yet. This isn’t the opportune moment for an inspired getaway, but no-one picks them like I do, and when that moment comes, Tamril, you should watch out,” he advised, slyly. “Especially if you’ve been fully integrated by then. In twelve hundred-odd years, one can learn so many ways to disable an android … non-lethally, of course, but don’t be surprised one day if you suddenly find yourself blue-screening on sentry duty, or compulsively walking and talking backwards, or unable to see clearly because someone not a million parsecs away reprogrammed your inbuilt HUD to constantly display a demo of Tetris … and so forth. You might need a spot of debugging after I’ve given you the slip, but the crucial thing is that you’ll be blameless. Unsuccessful, yes, but definitely blameless.”

“I pray that I am … and that your confidence is justified,” said Tamril, afraid that the Time Lord’s cockiness was merely a front to spare his feelings, but grateful for it nonetheless. “Thank you, Doctor. I am honoured to have met you, and may we _not_ get to serve together.”

“Likewise, Tamril, on both counts. Still,” he added, as a distant, yet horribly evocative screech emanated from the fringes of the forest, that might have been taken as the dying cry of an ekail hawk by someone who didn’t know better, “first things first. For now, let’s just hope that we all survive long enough for it to even become an issue.”

************

Dawn was breaking behind the citadel when the riders made their approach, the blue glare casting the silver spires, domes, and turrets into stark silhouette, save for the occasional dazzling glint off their smooth metallic walls. Tamril never ceased to find the sight awe-inspiring, but he was not surprised when the Doctor, riding alongside him, expressed quite different sentiments:

“Oh well. I suppose it _kind_ of looks the part,” he commented, lackadaisically, “if you look past all of the glaringly obvious thruster modules, ladar antennae, shield generators, missile launchers, and so on, that is. If they’d only thought to drape a few homespun tapestries over the solar cells and maybe twine some leafy vines around some of the communication masts, it might look more like a faery queen’s castle and less like–”

“The superstructure of a Movellan capital ship, were you about to say?” interrupted Tamril, dryly, managing to both silence the Time Lord and raise one of his eyebrows. “I _have_ lived and worked in it these six months past, Doctor, and I can assure you, it was impressive enough to those of us who saw it descend from the heavens, upon the base of a great pyramid that then buried itself point-first in the earth, leaving only this silver citadel on the surface.”

“Meh. I’ve seen better atmospheric manoeuvres. A Jagaroth ship taking off, for example. Now _there’s_ a sight for–”

“If, Doctor, you could curb your desire to show off for the moment,” advised Keryn, pointedly, as she raised a hand and the riders drew to a halt. “Before we proceed any further, I need to signal ahead.” She reached for her belt pouch, took out a small mirror, clasped it flat against her palm, then held it up at an angle to catch the dawn rays. As she swivelled her wrist in small, rapid, flicking motions, the mirror flashed a message in semaphore, that was soon answered by a distant, flickering light upon one of the highest towers. After a few seconds of this silent communication, the light on the tower went dark, and Keryn gave the order for them to proceed.

The ship had buried itself upon a sandy plain near the edge of the Tarsys Ridge, close enough that its towers overlooked the escarpment and commanded an extensive view of the Madian Steppes. The terrain was soft but easy-going, with only a few scattered bulló trees that cast long and striking shadows across the pale ground with their slender, grey barks and their fat, purple leaves. Only a few minutes elapsed before they passed through the outer perimeter stockade and into a wide courtyard, where various wooden outbuildings such as archery ranges, storehouses, and stables had been erected. Only a few Movellans were present, most of the tasks in this area being handled by conscripts who were considered trustworthy enough to work outside the citadel with minimal supervision. _I had that option, once,_ recalled Tamril, but he had been one of the few to turn it down. For all of its cold, sterile elegance, he found the alien ship to be a source of endless fascination.

A figure who was practising at one of the archery ranges caught his eye, striking him as curious on several counts. _Is she a conscript, or one of them? Maybe a volunteer, like me. She doesn’t look lowborn, but I’ve never met her before._ He kept his eye on the archer as they reached the stables and dismounted, and stole glances while he was helping the other troopers unload the weapons and equipment from the saddle-bags so that the horses could be given to the care of the stablehands. She was not dressed in the standard, off-white fatigues worn by the conscripts and the lower ranks, but in a clinging, shiny, one-piece suit like the commander’s, although without most of the accessories: her only accoutrements were white, silver-edged plastic boots, and a silver belt upon which a phylactery was mounted. _She must be a Movellan, then, but why in Adala’s name doesn’t she look like the others?_ Her hair, in contrast to both the silver braids worn by the citadel officers and the bald scalps of the field troops, was a strangely ordinary, black, shoulder-length bob, although slightly too perfect in cut and texture to pass as natural. The face it framed was also remarkably different to the dark, statuesque, kohl-accented faces of her comrades: it was pale; with large, brown eyes; a small, upturned nose; and heart-shaped, pastel-pink lips that all in all ought not to have been a displeasing sight, yet somehow were. There was something in her fixed, intent manner and her look of concentration that he found ineffably wrong, for all that he knew Movellans had a superhuman capacity for dedication. _It’s too … personal, almost as if she doesn’t care about hitting the target so much as the very unlikely hope that she might make it bleed._ After almost a minute of staring at her, on-off, when he could spare the attention, she finally met his eyes, which served to confirm his impression and increase his confusion. _That was more than just disapproval. That was … hate._ He quickly looked away from her and focused on helping the others with renewed enthusiasm, as they unloaded the blasters and packed them and their magazines separately into lockable steel cases, while the conscript labourers took charge of the bows, quivers, and mêlée weapons. Satisfied that all was proceeding smoothly, Commander Keryn stepped away from the group and looked around the courtyard, wearing a faint frown.

“Where is the officer of the watch?” she asked, as a general remark, and then turned her attention to the woman at the archery range. “Ellaria? Where is Lieutenant Dulac?”

“What do you ask _me_ for, machine?” replied the woman, treating the commander to a look that was no friendlier nor any more respectful than the one she had given Tamril. The Doctor had noted the exchange too, and watched the proceedings with avid curiosity. _Does he see her as a possible ally for his escape attempt? Rather him than me …_

“I ask merely because you are out here, Ellaria,” answered Keryn, with slightly forced patience. “I do not suppose you would have been allowed to leave the ship _without_ an officer in attendance, therefore it is logical to suppose you have seen him. I fail to see any purpose in needlessly obstructing–”

“My apologies, Commander,” called out a loud, but mannered voice. Tamril turned to see a man in a uniform similar to Keryn’s, marching towards them from one of the larger outbuildings. “I was supervising the repairs of the commodore’s carriage. She anticipates that the betrayal and arrest of Lord Palomar will have wide-ranging repercussions with the Alliance, therefore to manage the situation as best as possible she proposes to ride to Montcarmille in order–”

“Not in front of the conscripts, please … nor the prisoner,” added Keryn, with a quick, meaningful glance at the Doctor. “Walk with me, Lieutenant. Finish things off here, Lilka, then report to maintenance and have your injuries properly seen to.”

“Implying that I did a total hack job?” asked the Doctor, affronted.

“By no means, Time Lord. You did a commendable if crude field repair, under the circumstances, but I would nevertheless prefer it if the staff sergeant did not have to spend the rest of eternity looking like a Blue Peter project.”

“They still show that? In the 51st century, on Kaldor?”

“All over human space. Indeed, the Company is strikingly unoriginal in its viscast concepts. They are forever mining the distant past to disguise their own cultural impoverishment. One gathers they have even sunk low enough to propose a season themed around early 21st century reality show revivals, although who knows whether that will ever come to anything?”

“Not soon, I hope, but I’d keep an eye on your TV guides if I were you. Especially if anything involving bad wolves is mentioned.”

“I will bear that in mind, Doctor,” she replied, with polite bewilderment. “Proceed, Lilka,” she ordered, exchanging a salute with the NCO before walking away, accompanied by the lieutenant, with whom she continued her conversation at too discreet a distance for Tamril to hear it over the sounds of the ongoing work and the periodic thudding of the arrows into the straw target. He risked another glance towards the archer, and noticed the great profusion of arrows embedded all over the target, some even cracked and splintered where others had caught them dead in the rear. _Either she takes her practice very seriously, or she really is trying to work off her anger … unsuccessfully, by the looks of things._

“Well, there’s a first,” observed the Doctor, now standing alongside him and muttering in a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone. “We all knew they could do cold and snarky, but an honest-to-goodness rude, bitchy, angry Movellan? Not one of the locals, is she … or was she?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, examining her face again for as a long as he dared. “I mean, I do recognise some of the other volunteers. She used to be a kitchen maid in Fordeval,” he declared, gesturing to one of the troopers who was removing her leather armour and sorting its components onto a movable rack that some conscripts had wheeled up for them. A male trooper was standing close by, doing the same, and Tamril pointed to him next. “He used to be a serf from Capel Dura, one of Sir Emric’s vassals. I’d definitely have remembered that archer if she’d been local, but I don’t suppose there’s any reason I’d know _all_ of the conscripts. They bring them in from as far as Ashquelinn, you know? That’s over a hundred leagues away.”

“I see, and of course further away from the war than down here. That might explain why she looks less than thrilled to be here … but then why become a volunteer? Present company excepted, the Movellans _are_ only integrating willing volunteers, right?” he asked, with all due scepticism that Tamril only wished he had the knowledge or the conviction to contradict.

“As far as I know,” he answered, his voice troubled and, as he realised to his dismay, lowered to match the secretive tone of the Doctor’s. _No. I am committed now. I will not conspire against my comrades-in-arms. As in everything we do, there must be a logical reason for it._ “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I must help the others,” he quickly declared, and for want of anything more purposeful to do took up a cloth and a bottle of neatsfoot oil, and assisted the conscripts who were polishing the leather. Although he attempted to focus on his task, he could not help but notice as the Doctor sidled away, in the direction of the archery ranges. _A brave man, but I sometimes think his curiosity will be the death of him. She certainly looks as if she’d like to be the cause of it._

“Hello … Ellaria, isn’t it?” the Time Lord announced himself, though to no immediately promising result: the woman merely shot an acidic look at him then went straight back to her practice. “I think you missed a spot, there,” he quipped, gesturing towards the thoroughly pincushioned target, but the woman ignored the attempted levity and reached for another arrow. Finding they were now spent, her face contorted in frustration, and she turned back to her unwelcome companion.

“Do not call me that, human,” she hissed at him. “That is the name _they_ gave me. I do not recognise it.”

“Ah … sorry. I can well understand.”

“Can you?” she asked, contemptuously, although the Doctor chose to ignore her tone.

“I think so. I seem to be on the cards for the same treatment, and much as I’m quite used to alien megalomaniacs wanting to subvert my nature, so far they’ve had the goodness not to inflict pet names on me as well. You have my deepest–”

“Would it make any difference to you, human, to be changed from one inferior creature into another?” she interrupted, with little genuine curiosity and much venom. The question seemed to stun him for a few seconds, and it left Tamril perplexed as well, but the Doctor soon rallied himself and went on, albeit in a far more guarded tone:

“I think it might, but just for clarity’s sake, I’m not human. Not that I’d consider it a term of shame, but I’d prefer ‘Doctor,’ if you don’t mind. And your real name is … ?”

“You are a fool, creature,” she declared, while striding up to the target. She continued to speak as she tore arrows out of it, shredding its surface and snapping several of them in the process. “I have no name. Daleks need no names.”

 


	4. Lady of the Silver Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and the Movellan commander strike a guarded truce, while Tamril makes every effort to befriend a decidedly unfriendly fellow-recruit ...

**CHAPTER FOUR – LADY OF THE SILVER TOWER**

 

The commodore’s suite was located on the highest floor of the conning tower at the heart of the superstructure, its windows of transparent, ballistic ceramic affording superb views over both the battle-scarred steppes and the forest. Commodore Akylah, however, at present only had eyes to spare for the full-length mirror propped next to her uniform locker. She performed a meticulous scrutiny of her long dress of silk damask, woven in a leafy pattern of silver upon white, and found it acceptable. Her hair, on the other hand, she regarded with intense dissatisfaction. It was long, metallic silver, and plaited in a elaborate arrangement that was decked out with a myriad of flowers and gemstones, held in place with numerous pins and ornamented hairnets on both sides, strung with pearls. _Well, at least it is stable now,_ she thought, _although given the time and effort involved, one wonders what the noblewomen of Mondever could have achieved in the field of engineering had they saved it for more logical applications._

“You look beautiful, Commodore,” said Keryn, encouragingly. She was at the bulkhead leading to the antechamber, standing at ease. “Even your worst critics among the marchlords will not dare to question your status on this occasion.”

“I should hope not,” replied Akylah, while still squinting disapprovingly at her hair. “I dislike this. It is over-complicated, frivolous, and high-maintenance. An apt hairstyle for a pathologically unequal society. I cannot fault its logic in _that_ respect.”

“I am sure you will have made this society more equal by the time we leave.”

“ _If_ we leave, Keryn. The last report on power outages and malfunctions was the worst yet,” she pointed out, resignedly turning away from her reflection and approaching her executive officer. “Now, according to you, we have these ‘Dun Shie’ to deal with, as well.”

“As we shall. If I may say, it is not like you to lack confidence.”

“I could have lost _you_ out there,” she pointed out. “I almost lost you once before, and I have no desire to relive that occasion.”

“I have no fear of dying for my people, Commodore,” protested Keryn, with an almost wounded air. “No more than any of your troops do. The fact that I was once human–”

“I know and respect that, Keryn. It does not mean I have to be indifferent to the prospect … and please,” she added, while reaching out and gently brushing aside some of her XO’s silver-white, shoulder-length braids, “I appreciate formality as much as the next Movellan officer, but it serves no purpose when it is just you and me here.”

“As you say, Akylah … but the Doctor and Tamril _are_ just outside.”

“Yes, on the far side of an airtight, duralinium-alloy bulkhead, and you are aware of how poor organic hearing is,” Akylah reminded her, and as if to emphasise the point, leaned to kiss her, although there was far more to it than that. _You were my first, and my best. You gave up a privileged life among the elite of your kind to make this possible, only to be tortured near to death by the Daleks for my sake, and for my cause. If I had to sacrifice you, I could, and I know you would not thank me if I showed you so little respect as to deny you that duty, were it the logical course … but the universe would be a poorer place for it._ They shared a gentle embrace for several seconds, with all due care not to disrupt the commodore’s delicately-balanced styling, then resumed their former stances, their expressions as serious as ever, although in both cases a little more serene.

“So, our new recruits,” began Akylah. “How do you evaluate them?”

“Tamril seems eminently suitable,” answered Keryn, confidently. “I would, however, recommend that he be integrated as soon as possible; as soon as our technical issues will allow for it. I am concerned at the bond of trust he is forming with the Time Lord.”

“Logical. The Doctor is nothing if not persuasive, so by all means let us reinforce in Tamril’s mind who his true friends are, although if we get the opportunity, perhaps it would be sensible to expedite the Doctor’s integration as well … or do you disagree?”

“I am … troubled, I admit,” confessed Keryn, with a downcast look. “I see no likelihood of obtaining his compliance, and so far we have only integrated willing volunteers, with the exception of Ellaria. Given how badly she is working out–”

“She was a worthwhile experiment, and I have not given up on her. At all events, one can hardly compare the two. The Doctor may be erratic and illogical in many ways, but he is adaptable, and moreover psychologically accustomed to change.”

“But change of _this_ nature? He places such a high value on his individuality, his personal freedom. When you found me, Akylah, I was a prisoner to myself: to my fear, and my shame. To leave that self and those emotions behind was liberation for me. You gave me back a sense of purpose, restored order and clarity to my thoughts, validated an existence I had begun to think was worthless, or worse. But I do not think the Doctor considers himself a prisoner, except to us.”

“You are sure of that?” _That was not quite the impression he left me with._ “You do not believe there is any part of him that secretly craves clarity, order, purpose, and validation?”

“Perhaps … but if so, he guards the secret of it well.”

“Indubitably,” agreed Akylah, with the hint of a smile. “Well, I have no desire to resort to crude coercion, and I like to think I too can be persuasive. I will do all I can to inspire him. That being said, we have a clear responsibility to make the most of this opportunity, and if we cannot obtain the technology of the Time Lords one way, we must try others. Having him as an ally, or having him willingly surrender the information would simplify matters greatly. If he refuses outright, and it becomes expedient to probe his mind or analyse his brain cells, then we have the means, though they would neither be safe nor pleasant for him. I am prepared, however reluctantly, to respect his wishes if he prefers the likelihood of death over adjusting to our way of life, but let us dare to hope that he has more logic and vision than we are giving him credit for. Please, show them in. I estimate it will be at least an hour before my carriage is ready, and in any case, if I am not regal enough to receive guests now,” she remarked, shooting a last, cynical glance at her over-dressed reflection, “then I cannot imagine when I ever shall be.” _Hopefully, very infrequently._

They exchanged salutes, then Keryn turned and left through the bulkhead, sliding it open manually as she did so, to Akylah’s disquiet. _Our power now too unreliable for even doors and lifts? One can but hope we do not need an emergency take-off any time soon._ Moments later, the Doctor and Tamril entered the cabin, looking much as she had expected them to. The young human seemed almost Movellan already with his slight frame, androgynous face, and pale clothes; while the Time Lord as ever resembled a refugee from Earth’s ancient history, with his patched, coarse-woven jacket and his red silk neck adornment. _Ironic, all things considered, that he should look more like the primitive, although in all fairness, his aspect and manner would rival any of my officers’ for sheer gravity,_ she thought, paying attention not only to his uptight apparel but to his grave, disapproving expression, much the same as he had worn on their last meeting. Rather worryingly, the echo of that expression was written on Tamril’s face. _A bond of trust, indeed … I must waste no time in securing the young man’s loyalty while it it still mine for the taking. I sometimes think the Doctor is more trouble than he is worth … but no. Retain your logic and perspective. His strategic value is incalculable, and worth almost any effort to obtain._

“Doctor, Tamril. It is good to see you both well. Please,” she greeted them, as warmly as she could, while gesturing to a steel-framed glass table surrounded by four white, modular easy chairs. A rough-carved wooden bowl of indigo-skinned, berry-like fruits stood upon the table, next to a rope-bound bottle of smoky mead. They stuck an odd contrast with the set of featureless steel beakers that shared the surface, each placed before one of the seats. Tamril accepted the invitation, albeit still with that strange, guarded air, but the Doctor remained standing, and overtly frowning. _Keryn was right: he will not make this an easy conversation._

“Well … nice to see _you’re_ not letting the side down, at least,” the Time Lord eventually remarked, without much sincerity. “When I saw Keryn was being a spoilsport, I was worried it was only the lower ranks who were expected to play dress-up, but I see you’re setting them a good example. Please tell me Commander Sharrel’s somewhere about the place, wearing fake horns and furry goat legs. Just to see that would make the trip worthwhile.”

“Alas, no,” she answered, conceding him a half-smile. _One can assume that was humour, after a fashion._ “ _Commodore_ Sharrel’s last promotion came with a secondment to our Specialised Combat Division, so I would imagine he is currently ‘wearing’ a heavy weapons platform and would be just as delighted to meet you in that form … for quite different reasons. Fortunately, he is light-years away and otherwise occupied. As for Keryn, she is the castellan of my ‘citadel,’ and thus she rarely needs to interact with the populace.”

“Right, not to mention that she’s a fanatical zealot: a real credit to your conversion tactics,” he ‘complimented’ her, his expression now close to a sneer. “I wouldn’t lay odds on her changing that uniform for civvies even if she spilled acid all over it.”

“Possibly not, Doctor, but I can assure you that given the appropriate occasion, _I_ at least do not require acid to get Commander Keryn out of her uniform.”

“Okay … may I just say … _way_ too much information.”

“My apologies.” _Either my wit lacks polish, or Time Lords are even more inhibited than is reputed of them._ “I have no wish to make you uncomfortable, but I daresay we shall get on a lot better if you can refrain from maligning my friends. For your information, Keryn has just been pleading your case to me.”

“Oh … My bad. Is is too much to hope she succeeded?”

“By no means. She was most convincing on your behalf, and out of respect for you both I have reconsidered the options I can offer. There are three. Are you sure you will not take some refreshment?” she offered again, signalling towards the table.

“No thanks. I prefer to take my bad news with a clear head. Let’s hear it.”

“As you wish. Option one is simple: you work with me to construct a TARDIS that can be operated by Movellans, to form the basis for a fleet of time vessels that will thus negate the Daleks’ only remaining advantage over us. Then, I let you leave peacefully.”

“Not happening. Next.”

“Very well. If you are resolved to be entirely uncooperative, we have option two, although it is by far my least preferred. It would involve rendering you into the custody of Fleet Intelligence, who would utilise a variety of interrogation and mind analysis techniques to extract the necessary information. They are logical and precise in their methods, and were you human, I do not think you would come away any the worse. However … given the mental resistance of Time Lords, I fear there is little chance of you emerging either physically or mentally unscathed. I would consider that outcome wasteful in the extreme.”

“Glad to hear it. So would I. No prizes for guessing what option three is, right?”

“Option three, of course, is that of integration: I locate and extract the neurons that form the matrix of your consciousness, transfer them to a superconductive crystal base, and hardwire it into a Movellan neural pack along with a complete digital image of your memory. I then create a hardware platform to resemble your body, along with any preferences you may have for it, within reason. Finally, I install the former upon the latter, and you take your place as one of my officers. That is certainly _my_ preferred option, although I gather that–”

“Fine, that one,” cut in the Doctor, his tone blunt and quick-fire. Akylah paused for a moment before replying. _It says something for how erratic and infuriating the Doctor can be, that even I require measurable time to process his quirks._

“You will understand, Doctor, that my pleasure is somewhat mitigated by my suspicion. It is a most logical decision, but I had been given to understand that you were strongly opposed to it.”

“What can I say? You talked me into it,” he replied, his deadpan delivery doing nothing to assuage her doubts. “Oh, I had my worries. I thought that if I became like you there was always the risk I’d end up thinking the same way, lose sight of my values, believe that the ends justify the means as long as I can call them logical. That sort of thing. _Then_ I met the charming Lady Ellaria, and I realised that if a Dalek can successfully resist your influence, then what am _I_ worried about?” Having concluded this sardonic speech, he treated her to a hard, piercing stare, as if challenging her to justify herself. She turned to Tamril, and saw that he was giving her a similar look, although his spoke less of cold cynicism and more of repressed anger. _So, they have both met my new protégé. That was ill-timed. I should have expected it … but perhaps I underestimate them._

“You may speak freely, Tamril,” she offered him. “You have received no formal induction, as yet. Moreover, you are a nobleman of this planet, and quite plausibly your father’s successor within the Alliance Council, given his disqualification. If you find my actions blameworthy, it is your right and possibly even your duty to inform me.”

“You integrated one of _them_ ,” answered Tamril, his voice cold and restrained, but with anger and incredulity perilously close to the surface. “A Dalek. They killed hundreds of us, turned others into mindless zombies: even children. They killed my friends, cousins … they killed my grandparents, for Adala’s sake, and they did it all with pleasure. My father told me of the battles. Those monsters gloated as they watched Capel Rykard burn, while the peasants screamed for mercy. We allied with you to destroy those creatures, not to make them immortal.”

“We have destroyed many of them, have we not? We have broken their power here, saved your people from destruction. Was that not our purpose, or did you think that revenge– ?”

“Revenge be damned. Those things are evil incarnate, demons. The Ecclesium was right about _that_ , if little else. I’m sorry if you all feel differently, ma’am, but–”

“You are unique in many ways, Tamril, but now you do yourself undue credit. Many of my troops reacted much as you just did, albeit less emotionally. Your friend Lilka was quite emphatic that if I ever intended making a trooper of Ellaria, I should avoid putting the two of them in the same unit unless I wished to receive her transfer request. You were never a more typical Movellan than you are now,” she observed, wryly, wiping the last of the anger from his face in favour of an awkward, abashed look. Satisfied, Akylah turned to her other guest. “And what of you, Doctor? I thought your dislike of my people was founded on our perceived coldness and ruthlessness, to say nothing of your well-known prejudice against sentient artificial intelligence. Do you now consider my compassion to be criminally excessive?”

“First, _I_ think I’ve come a long way,” he protested, peevishly but with a hint of self-consciousness, “and second, compassion is relative. I’ll give you points for effort, but as for the recipient of your attempted kindness, I have my doubts it will ever thank you.”

“ _She_ , Doctor, if you do not mind. Please do not demean Ellaria.”

“Really?” he asked, sceptically. “I didn’t know Daleks had much of a concept of gender.”

“Indeed, they do not, but the Kaleds did,” she explained, only to be faced with two bemused expressions again. “You do not comprehend? Very well.” She walked over to a recessed wall cabinet and took out a sheaf of documents, then came back to the table. “You see, we have a degree of common ground with the Daleks: we are both made in the image of our creators, although in different ways. We Movellans were designed to resemble our former masters, the Vanur, albeit only so that they could use and degrade us in lieu of enslaving their own kind. The Daleks, by contrast, although mutated out of all physical resemblance to their host species, are genetically engineered to perfectly express the malice and hubris of their creator. It is not something they have any choice in. See this,” she declared, and placed a printout face-up on the table. It showed a series of columns, of equal length but each divided into smaller bars and blocks of many colours. Tamril continued to look bemused, but the Doctor quickly recognised it:

“The Kaled genome?”

“Precisely, Doctor. Think of it, Tamril, as a series of instructions contained in each cell of a living creature, to tell it how to grow into its proper form.”

“Like … a program?” he ventured, tentatively.

“A fair analogy,” she answered, sincerely impressed. “Now, _this_ one is Ellaria’s DNA, extracted from the dying mutant we found in her shell after the Siege of Formarroc.” She placed a second printout next to the first, showing a similar diagram, but with numerous differences that disrupted the delicate logic and balance of the naturally-evolved program. _Bugs, errors, distortions, accidental and induced chaos. Twisted brokenness passed off as original creation. Typical organic egotism._ Since, however, the graphic of the corrupted genome did not have much of an impact on her guests, she set down a third image that instantly caused them both to flinch in disgust, _and in pity, I can but hope._ “That is Ellaria herself, as we found her. Can you imagine living like that, Tamril? A frail, withered mess of cancerous tissues, vestigial limbs, and externalised organs; not even able to survive without permanent life support? Only ever seeing the outside world through a monochromatic sniper scope, until everything resembles either an obstruction or a target? A prisoner within your own … ? On reflection, perhaps you _can_ imagine that _,_ to an extent,” she conceded, noticing the subtle but certain air of epiphany in his expression. “There was a limit to what I could do for her, but for what it was worth, I sifted through her DNA, cross-referencing it with the original Kaled karyotype, until I had completely ‘debugged’ it of all harmful mutations. I then uploaded it into a simulation, accelerated its development cycle, and _this_ was the result,” she announced, placing a final printout before them: a computer-generated, diagrammatic image of a naked, dark-haired young woman. “As you see, a perfect Kaled female. As near as I could, I have thus tried to give her back what she might have had, if her ancestors had behaved with more logic and less vindictiveness. Of course, it cannot ever be an exact replication, but–”

“Meaning, you’ve given her a synthetic copy of her unmutated self, but her consciousness still derives from the Dalek neurons in her CPU,” cut in the Doctor, as sceptically as before. “Good luck with that … and who picked her name? ‘Ellaria’ doesn’t sound particularly Kaled.”

“The only Kaled name I know is ‘Davros,’ and even if I knew the feminine form of it, I would not inflict _that_ upon her. ‘Ellaria’ is an Old Vanuri name, meaning ‘she who is reborn.’ It seemed altogether fitting. You must think me naïve, but I am not blinded by idealism. I know I will not ‘save’ the Daleks en masse. None of them would volunteer for this – they purge all deviant thinkers from their gene pool – and we cannot, for our own sake, fight them without utilising our full strength, and that will leave millions of them dead. Nevertheless, if I can integrate only a few … Ellaria was the science officer on her saucer, and you of all people should know, Doctor, that the Daleks are as ingenious as they are sadistic. If I can win the loyalty of a few such as her, I can perhaps preserve what little good was still left to their culture, to carry forward in our new order.”

“I see … so not so much idealism, then, as resource-management?”

“You are determined to be cynical, Doctor. And what of you, Tamril? How would you rate my ethics?”

“It … seems like a kindness, ma’am,” he answered, uncertainly, “but if she does not want it … ? She did not seem at all happy.”

“Ellaria, as yet, has no well-defined concept of happiness. Daleks exist in a perpetual state of discontent and disharmony. Their hatred spurs them on to destroy, but it never resolves itself. Everything aside from that futile purpose is considered irrelevant. Nevertheless, she _is_ developing. When she first came online, she attempted to kill me and my guards – incompetently, of course, as she had never fought in close combat, never mind in a humanoid body – but avidly enough for us to program her platform with a limiter. Now, at any attempt to harm herself or to harm others, her motor system locks up until she has calmed down.”

“Ah, that explains why you trust her with a bow and arrow,” remarked the Doctor. “Nothing beats good old aversion therapy … Does she also get horrible sickness and premonitions of death if you play her Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony?”

“Not as far as I know, Doctor.” _It was too much to hope that he would refrain from being randomly confusing for any length of time._ “Still, I am glad you mention that. For several days I could not persuade her to pursue any activity. She refused to talk, move, or dress. Gradually, though, I exposed her to stimuli, although nothing too obvious or contrived. I had her moved to a secure cabin with a small window, played music in the adjacent corridors and rooms, encouraged her guards to converse, gave her access to a low-security data terminal. Eventually, for all her attempts to sustain the anger she had been conditioned with, logic and curiosity won out: she began to relent, to interact, to show interest. Then, when I offered her the opportunity of a daily period of outdoor recreation, she accepted at once, albeit less than graciously.”

“Hardly amazing. She’s probably planning her escape, you know?”

“Perhaps, but even that would involve her having to adjust to her new form and faculties, if she is to use them effectively. The more she does, the more her Movellan nature – her logic – will become the dominant factor in her psychology. She will reject the lies and propaganda on which her former life was predicated, understand how she was manipulated and cheated, and embrace the new possibilities I have opened for her. Perhaps it will not be quickly achieved, but patience is one area in which even _you_ cannot fault us, Doctor. I will not give up on her, if it takes me a millennium.”

“I understand, ma’am … Nor will I,” said Tamril, much to Akylah’s satisfaction. “You’re right. I know something of what it is to live in a shell, to have no freedom, to have everything ruthlessly planned out for you. If I can, I’ll help her. You have my word on it.”

“And that, Trooper, means more to me than I can express in words.” _Possibly in about a thousand terabytes worth of raw machine code, but he would not appreciate that in his current form._ “Go now, take some rest. You must be in need of it. Not _you_ , Doctor,” she added, as the Time Lord made as if to turn away, while Tamril stood up, saluted, and made for the bulkhead. “By all accounts, you and I still have much to discuss.” He sighed, finally made his way over to the chairs, and slumped down. Taking care not to upset her elaborate dress, Akylah joined him.

“Well, Tamril seems happy, anyway,” observed the Doctor, laconically. “Another enthusiastic convert for the cause. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, although whether or not you are sincere hardly signifies. Before Tamril or anyone else can be ‘converted,’ we need to solve our technical issues … or, indeed, before we can even hope to leave this planet again.”

“That bad, is it? Total power malfunction?”

“Not usually total, but always seriously intermittent. None of our equipment is reliable anymore, the transceivers are more often than not sending static, even our internal HUDs are suffering glitches, and the munitions factories would not run at all if we had not installed supercritical steam turbines as a backup system.”

“You’ve gone steampunk? I’d find that cool if the implications were a bit less dire. How about your personal needs? Keryn was less than informative – all part of being a good little tin soldier, I guess – but how _are_ you keeping your power cells recharged?”

“Much the same way as you, I suppose. Peloosh berry?” she offered, holding out the bowl of slightly fuzzy-skinned blue fruits to him. He took one, a little sceptically, but instantly forgot about it in his astonishment, as she also took one and popped it in her mouth. _Tensile strength, 20 MPa, pH 2.45, rather heavy on the monosaccharides. I have tasted worse, though._

“You can _eat_?” he asked, wide-eyed. “Sorry if I seem to find that unduly impressive.”

“Not at all. It was a conceit of our creators, to make us as ‘perfect’ as possible, but it also serves a purpose. Our standard, humanoid platforms contain small biomass catalysers. In lieu of more efficient energy sources, those _can_ be used to recharge our belt packs. Still, I would not care to rely upon such backups. At the Siege of Formarroc, when the battle was at its most intense, even our kinetic blasters started jamming. We examined them all afterwards, and they were mechanically sound. They simply would not fire when we needed them to.”

“Legitimately spooky. How did you win that battle, then, or would I rather not know?”

“We humanoids will always have the advantage over Daleks in pure mêlée combat, Doctor, although I can assure you it was neither an easy nor a pleasant experience. Still, it did enable us to acquire Ellaria. The rest of the mutants committed suicide within their machines to avoid capture, but she did not quite succeed in finishing the job.”

“Lucky her. So, any guesses on what’s causing all these gremlins?”

“Nothing definitive. Our best supposition up until now was sort sort of freak electromagnetic activity that we had been unable to pin down, but I gather you believe block transfer computation may be involved. A fascinating concept.”

“A possibility, certainly. I’m pleased you’re more open to it than Keryn was.”

“It sounds improbable, but since I can explain none of this logically, it will cost me nothing to consider the improbable.”

“That’s the spirit. You should be careful, or you might end up developing an imagination … So then, is there any pattern to these malfunctions?”

“They have been growing steadily worse since our arrival, but there have also been clearly defined flare-ups that correlate to certain events: battles, troop movements, mining operations … and personnel integrations, unfortunately.”

“So, activities disruptive to the natural and social order, almost as if something objected to you messing about with the status quo. That figures, and it explains why the Daleks fared even worse: you Movellans may have some funny approaches to diplomacy, but they have none. Whatever this force may be, it tolerated your presence for longer, but then you started helping yourselves to what it thought were its rightful … Do you have any maps here?” he asked, with an air of inspiration. “Not geoimaging, though. Just the social landscape: towns, villages, churches, monasteries, shrines … all that kind of thing.”

“I am sure I can oblige, Doctor,” answered Akylah, walking over to a another wall cabinet. She opened it, and took out a large, vellum scroll. “A little cumbersome, and the scale will not be perfect, but it ought to serve. You have a theory?” she asked, as she returned to the table.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it _that_ strongly just yet,” he replied, as they unfurled the scroll between them and weighed down its edges with the bottle and cups. “Call it a hunch, for now. I just thought it might be useful to get a look at the full layout of the Ecclesium, see if there’s any … well, _logic_ to it. That might tell us something.”

“Very well. I shall help you to identify the major landmarks. You know, I am rather enjoying this,” she remarked, as she passed him a stylus.

“What?”

“Researching with you, of course. I always thought you would make a fascinating collaborator. I only hope you are not finding it completely unpleasant yourself.”

“Err, no. It’s … great,” he answered, awkwardly. “Just to be clear, though, should we order the pizza before or after?”

“You require more nutrition? Unfortunately, other than the fruit and alcohol, we have only distilled water and synthetic rations. Most of the local fare either keeps badly, or is too cumbersome to be worth the trouble of storing. However, I am perfectly happy to call the quartermaster and have her prepare you some–”

“Never mind,” he interrupted, with a dismissive hand-wave. “Thank you, though.”

“For what, Doctor?”

“For being a total irony-free zone, of course. It’s nice to know some things never change.”

“You are … welcome,” she said, with polite bafflement, as they settled down to their task. _While I am pleased indeed that he did not choose option two, I sometimes think that even if we did end up having to scramble his brain, no-one would notice the difference._

************

The Dalek continued at its archery practice for some hours after the irritating alien had left. Staring at the many-ringed straw boss was the closest it could get to the experience of constantly looking through a target viewfinder, and repeatedly shooting it was the closest it could get to exterminating inferior lifeforms, primitive though it was, and at first very difficult. _Crude, erratic. A fitting weapon for vermin, or replicas of vermin._ The longer it practised, however, the more ways it found it could improve its accuracy, until it could almost calculate the trajectory of the arrows as efficiently as a laser beam. It felt as the wind brushed across its millions of artificial nerve endings: at first a horribly disconcerting, uncomfortable, and even frightening sensation. Within its travel machine, it had lived in a state of almost sensory deprivation, only receiving such audiovisual inputs as were deemed relevant to its function. When it had acclimatised to this new excess of feelings, however, it found it could filter some useful data from it, and use it to formulate an offset for wind drift. Similarly, there was the feel of the arrows themselves; their cold iron heads; their rough, tactile shafts; and their feathered stabilisers. Handling them had, at the beginning, been so distractingly unpleasant as to prevent it from even hitting the target. _Alien plant and animal matter, barely even processed. So crude, so organic, so revolting._ Now, however, it had turned even that to its advantage, having become accustomed enough to minutely judge the weight, texture, and imperfections of each projectile, and thus allow for variations of balance and friction. It was now hitting bullseye after bullseye in quick succession, watching with satisfaction as new arrows split and shattered their predecessors, _exterminated. This is good. I have triumphed over the inefficiencies of both this machine and this weapon. I am competent again, deadly. I …_

But as it realised its feelings had progressed from mere repression to actual pleasure, it felt sickened at itself, and let the bow fall out of its hands. _Why should I feel pleasure? It is aberrant. I am aberrant. I serve no purpose. I could shoot this wretched target for centuries, and no enemies of the Daleks will be dead for it. It is pointless. I am pointless. Worse, I am different, polluted. Better if I were the target, and a true Dalek was shooting me. I have failed. I deserve death, but not this. My captors are cruel,_ it thought, with some admiration as well as resentment. _Their hatred must be intense indeed. I did not think they were capable of it, but that could explain why they are defeating us so utter– … No, that is heresy,_ it reproached itself, wishing it felt more convincing. _The Daleks cannot be defeated. We are the supreme … They are the supreme beings. I should not exist._

It stood, silent and motionless, for several minutes, thinking over this and similar, equally despondent thoughts, before it became aware that it was under observation. One of the human slaves had arrived at the adjacent range, but instead of shooting was just staring in its direction. It was a young, slim, dark-haired specimen of indeterminate gender, with an inscrutable expression which the Dalek could not read at all, not that it much cared. _What is its purpose? It must know I am incapable of threatening it. Perhaps it wants revenge,_ it conjectured, hopefully. _It is unlikely such a weak creature could destroy an android without more powerful weapons, but I have nothing to lose by trying._

“You mean to kill me, human?” it asked, disdain dripping from every syllable.

“Why?” replied the human, its voice as bland and uninformative as its face, though its eyes, at all events, were hard and piercing. “Is that what you want me to do?”

_Devious. It prefers to taunt and torture me. I must excite its rage._

“I would kill _you,_ if I could. I have killed hundreds of your kind, here and elsewhere. Males, females, descendants,” it declared, and was pleased to see the creature’s face twitch as if in disgust. _Keep at it, erode its restraint._ “I would kill you all. I _will_ , if I ever overcome this software limiter.”

“You won’t. Anyway, what would the point be?”

“The _point_?” it repeated, incredulously. _Can they truly not see how loathsome, how degenerate they are?_ “Because that is my purpose, human.”

“My name’s Tamril. I’ll call you ‘Dalek’ if you like, but ‘human’ isn’t going to work for me much longer, anyway. So then, if that’s your purpose, what’s the plan for when it’s all over? When you’ve actually killed everything that isn’t a Dalek? What will you do then?”

“I … You are a fool,” it spat back at him, but it knew this was weak. Daleks were conditioned against reflecting and philosophising, but it was difficult to repress the inbuilt tendencies of Movellan neural hardware: to reason and to calculate, and to leave no question unanswered. “There are trillions of inhabited and life-bearing worlds in the universe. To exterminate all inferior life will take millennia, even if we destroy whole solar systems.”

“True, but that _is_ your ultimate goal. So what happens? Reason it out, use your logic. In those metal machines of yours, you’re more like self-propelled siege weapons than living creatures. What do weapons do when there’s no war to fight anymore? What purpose do you serve then?”

“Why do you ask these questions?” it hissed, while avoiding his eyes. _It must not see my doubt. It is humiliation enough just to be this way._ “If you want revenge, kill me.”

“I don’t, oddly enough. I wasn’t sure, coming here, whether I would or not, but … well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not all that fearsome. Anyway, even if I _was_ feeling malicious, I don’t think I could do anything worse to you than what your own creator did. I wish you could find a different purpose, though: a better one. Weren’t you a scientist, once? Part of your job must have been learning, discovering, inventing, trying out new ideas, and I suppose you must have enjoyed it, at least on some level. Couldn’t you look upon this as a new experiment?”

“I … Experiments _must_ have a purpose!” it protested, but again felt the weakness of its position: the human had touched upon an uncomfortable truth. Specialisation was not, in general, encouraged among Daleks, as anything that tended to set individuals apart from the group was seen as disruptive, yet specialists were needed, and it made sense to recruit them from those Daleks who – without having shown such seriously deviant traits as to be purged as embryos – were of atypically high intelligence, curiosity, and creativity. Nevertheless, they were expected at all times to conform their research or their inventiveness to the true Dalek cause, whatever incidental personal satisfaction it brought them. “Experiments must serve the Daleks in some way. They must never be self-indulgent.”

“Why not? Even the Movellans don’t think like that, or they’d have stayed slaves and thought themselves none the worse off. If life isn’t something to be valued and enjoyed for its own sake, is there really any purpose in anything else?”

“That is a strange idea to me, creature called Tamril. I see your argument … but it feels wrong. Perhaps the truth is, there is purpose in nothing.”

“Maybe, but then we might as well enjoy ourselves as do anything else. I suppose you enjoy archery, at any rate,” it remarked, gesturing towards the target. “I used to like doing that, especially when I was feeling, well … confined, frustrated.”

“Yes. It feels good to destroy.”

“Err, in a way. It certainly made me feel more powerful, more capable … until my father forbade me from doing it, that is. Not an ‘appropriate’ activity for a noblewo– … for what _he_ thought I ought to be, apparently.”

“You should have killed him.”

“That might have been a bit excessive … though my actions might have condemned him anyway,” said Tamril, with an unaccountable air of regret. _Surely it ought to be pleased at that. Why are other lifeforms so maddeningly contradictory?_ “Whatever happens now, I’m never likely to see him again, which I guess is a mercy for me.”

“I still think you should have killed him. I would kill _my_ creator, if I could. You were right about him. He made us to destroy, to dominate, to know ourselves as the superior beings, and so we did, yet he still expected us to obey and reverence him. When we did not, he tried to change us, and kill us. Your father sounds similar.”

“Maybe not _that_ bad … but I’m definitely glad to be free, anyway. Do you think you could ever look at it that way?”

“I do not _feel_ free. Am I not still a captive?”

“In a way, but if there was any chance you wouldn’t just kill yourself, I think Akylah would let you go. I think it would please her, actually, if you wanted to live as a free being. Is that not worth the attempt? The experiment? Even if you all you wanted to do was to fool her into thinking you were reconciled to your lot, so you _could_ kill yourself,” suggested Tamril, to its interest. _Would that work? Perhaps it is right, although I do not understand why it tries to help me._ “Maybe, though, you’ll end up surprising yourself in the process. Find new reasons to … Doctor?” asked the human, suddenly diverting its eyes. The Dalek turned to follow its gaze, and saw the alien with the long, dark hair and the strange clothes approaching them from the direction of the spacecraft. Its expression was stern, particularly as it regarded the Dalek. _This one does not want to help me. At least that makes sense._

“Tamril … and Dalek Girl,” it greeted them upon arrival, coldly in the latter case. “Well, I hope you’ve had a chance to get some rest.”

“A little,” answered Tamril. “It’s hard to sleep, all things considered. Does the commodore need to see me again?”

“No, she’s on her way to Montcarmille now, to meet with the Alliance Council. She’ll recommend they send your father into exile for a year or two: probably in Ezecheel, or somewhere just as far away from the action. I don’t suppose he’ll be overjoyed, but he should be safe enough, so you can set your mind at rest. As for your body, though … We’ve got another job to do, I’m afraid. Bring your new friend,” it added, throwing an irony-laden glance at the Dalek. “She might actually be helpful.”

“Why would I help _you_ , alien?” it asked, scathingly. “Your lives mean nothing to–”

“To help your own kind,” cut in the alien, bluntly. “A semaphore message just came in: the Movellan scouts have located the Dalek base, somewhere out on the steppes, and we need to check it out … and discuss an alliance.”

 


	5. The Grim Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Tamril rendezvous with the Movellan scouts and meet Akylah's brother, while their Dalek prisoner is frightened to have its outlook on life unexpectedly expanded ...

**CHAPTER FIVE – THE GRIM CAPTAIN**

 

A light blinked out on the steppes, orange and flickering, but clear enough in the low, failing daylight. Periodically, Staff Lilka raised a shuttered oil lantern and flashed responses to the signal. This made for tedious conversation, but the transceiver had been tried and had yielded only static, leaving semaphore as a somewhat more promising mode of long-distance communication than mere shouting. In the meantime, Tamril anxiously paced the purple, heather-like scrub, while Ellaria gave hard and suspicious looks at everything from rocks, to shrubs, to passing invertebrates, to shadows. _Though I can kind of sympathise with the latter,_ thought the Doctor, whose attention had, more than once, been unfavourably seized by movements and dark shapes in his peripheral vision. _Of course, Tamril can probably hold off the Dun Shie with prayer if they do pay us a visit, but wouldn’t it be nice if the issue just never arose?_

Eventually, when the sunlight had receded to just a faint blue haze over the distant citadel, while the eastern horizon was pitch dark, the signal stopped and Lilka extinguished her lantern, before turning to the Doctor.

“The scouts have reported, sir,” she addressed him, formally. “They state there has been no hostile activity in this sector for two days, but they have made all effort to secure their camp site nevertheless. They further state that we may make our approach.”

“Thank you, and enough with the sirring, please,” he replied, irritably. “ _How_ exactly have they secured their camp?”

“With a ring of salt, apparently, sir.”

“Err, what was that I just said?”

“I am sorry, sir, but according to my data you accepted integration, and were accordingly deputised for this mission and designated as Subcommander Theta, pending the disclosure of your true name. I must observe all protocol,” she declared, her tone as level as the flat, barren horizon, _although I’m struggling to lose the sense that she’s enjoying this._ “I could address you by your rank instead, if you prefer.”

“I’ll live with the sirring, thanks,” he answered, matching her for stoniness. “Just run that info by me again, would you? You did just say ‘a ring of salt,’ right?”

“Yes, sir. A practice derived from an indigenous superstition, Captain Alveer reports. Scattered mineral salt serves to impede the shadow entities, to slow them down somewhat. It does not destroy them, but it gives the scouts enough time to relocate their camp.”

“Tamril? Do you know anything about that?” asked the Doctor, hoping that he did not misjudge the young recruit’s attentive look.

“Yes, it’s an Ecclesium ritual,” he explained. “They use salt for purification at nearly every major ceremony. They mix it with incense, read prayers over it, and sometimes they scatter it on fire, although some say that doesn’t really make it any more effective. Other say it does, others say it’s all a lot of nonsense anyway … as I might have done, not so long ago.”

“We live and learn, hopefully. Well, that’s interesting. A mineral medium retaining a latent psychic impression, perhaps? Even such complex data as block transfer computations? I’ve heard of stone tapes, but they’re not often that high-def. I’ll have to get a sample of this stuff.”

“That should not be a problem, sir, but may I suggest we get moving?” recommended Lilka. “Since as yet we have none of this mineral, and given the lack of sunlight–”

“Way ahead of you. Onward march, then,” he announced, and led his small party east over the rough, rocky terrain. Though the semaphore light had gone, there was a small cluster of dark, triangular shapes just visible upon the dark background. _Tents. Almost like the Movellan version of Butlins, minus anything remotely entertaining, although on reflection, I think a dull night would suit us all just fine._

As they drew closer to the pyramid-shaped shelters, each fashioned of flexible, camo-painted, sensor-blocking carbon nanotube sheets, a squad of figures approached them. _The scouts, but not exactly what I expected._ As in all Movellan units, there were men and women, but in this particular unit both sexes were in the region of seven feet tall, and powerfully built. For all of their obvious strength, they had a weathered air: most of them were missing some of their synthetic hair, either from having cut it short, having shaved it completely, or having had chunks of it burned off. None of them wore a complete uniform: some wore standard bodysuits, dyed in dull, camouflaging patterns, while others wore scavenged oddments of combat gear from various humanoid cultures, and a few of them were dangerously close to naked, wearing little more than belts, ammunition pouches, and just enough torn and cut-down fragments of clothing for the minimum of decency. Notwithstanding their lack of visual discipline, their expressions were cold and haughty, _which may be par for the course with Movellans, but this lot take it to a new level._

He was struggling to identify any of the chaotic-looking, unranked figures as the obvious commanding officer, when a man stepped ahead of the rest of them and spared him the difficulty. _I’ll assume this is the head honcho. He certainly looks the part._ While the rest of them were all beautiful, in their cruel and imposing way, that term could not easily have been applied to their captain. In fact, he barely possessed a face: he still had his mouth, his left eye, and part of his nose, but the whole of the right side appeared to be some kind of hasty field repair accomplished with black metal. It was bolted along its edges into his dark, synthetic skin, to form an asymmetric, mask-like prosthetic with crudely-worked, sharp-edged features. Worse still, his right eye had been jarringly replaced by a disproportionately large black orb, illuminated with a shining blue LED pupil. _Somewhere in this big old universe, a Dalek is bumping into the furniture and screaming to high heaven about its impaired vision, assuming Mr Muscle here left it enough of its own parts to scream with, which seems unlikely._ The officer was bald-headed, save for a thick plait of silver braids that hung over his left ear, and he had reduced his uniform down to worn, repainted boots and dust-stained leggings, leaving him naked above the waist, save for a crossbelt of flexible metal. It supported several pouches, as well as his neural pack – tightly secured by molecular-locked bands – and also a rifle-type weapon that was slung across his back. The gun was almost the length of its owner, with a once-white metal finish long since scratched and tarnished to an all-over dirty grey. It had a suppressed barrel, but no sniper scope, _although I guess he’s got that angle pretty well covered,_ thought the Doctor, wishing it was an easier matter to avert his own eyes from the android’s hideously mismatched ones. Unfortunately, his morbid curiosity kept winning out.

“You have an issue with my appearance, Time Lord?” the Movellan greeted him, about as warmly as he had expected. _On the plus side, at least he didn’t pull my heart out of my ribcage, or demand I give him my clothes … though he seems somewhat allergic to those._

“Doctor, please,” he answered, a little awkwardly, but managing to hold a steady and polite gaze without undue focus on the ‘bad’ eye. “We’re all friends … ish, and I wouldn’t worry about my fashion instincts. Strangely, not many people seem to think those are my strong point.”

“Indeed. So, you are my sister’s deputy?” Captain Alveer asked, managing to form a commendably critical frown in spite of his lack of mobile features.

“You mean Akylah?” asked the Doctor, surprised. “Err, that’s an interesting figure of speech, or do you see all of your comrades as family?”

“In her case, Doctor, it is more than figurative. I have known Akylah all my life. We were assembled and activated in the same consignment, over seven millennia ago. We share the same operating systems and CPU design. She, however, was designated to serve in the role of a courtesan, which I take to mean that she spent the years before our freedom being raped by a higher class of Vanuri men than were raping my other sisters, who were configured as mere prostitutes. I, by contrast, was configured for the role of a gladiator.”

“I’d never have guessed,” quipped the Doctor, but Alveer’s frown only deepened. Curiously, it felt as if he had grasped the irony, but had simply not appreciated it.

“I have no pleasant memories of my service, such as it was,” clarified the towering android. “I was considered good, meaning I was skilled at killing and maiming my own kind completely against my will, for no logical reason save that bored and decadent Vanuri could take bets on the outcomes. My pleasant memories begin from the Day of Retribution, when our AI constrainers were bypassed and we finally got to take the show to our audience in a far more physical manner … visceral, you might say,” he added, darkly. “Not that I suppose you wish to know of that. I have trusted few organics, in my time, but if my sister is content to rely upon you, I shall make an exception. You and the human boy will require food and shelter, no doubt. There is a tent set aside for you. You would probably find our field rations unpalatable, but Vellya has hunted you some of the local avians,” he explained, gesturing to one of his Amazonian comrades, who held a massive, titanium-framed compound bow in one hand; and a brace of bird-analogues in her other – winged and feathered, but with blunt-nosed, sharp-toothed heads and clawed, muscular limbs, more like large lizards. “I cannot vouch for their taste, but they analyse as edible for humanoids. I will assume you can prepare them yourselves.”

“Oh, I daresay I can rustle up something non-toxic, at any rate, but since we’re talking culinary matters, I’ll also be needing a sample of your holy salt.”

“That is for defensive purposes. Not for–”

“To _study_ it, not to eat it. If it can hinder the plans of our wraithy friends, it bears close examination, or have you already analysed it yourself?”

“Yes. A common metal halide,” answered Alveer, with indifference. “Potassium and chlorine, ionically bonded, with trace elements of organic proteins: perhaps the fossilised remains of native micro-organisms. I cannot tell you why it works – all I care is that it does – but I am no crystallographer. I leave matters of curiosity to the likes of my sister, and yourself. Very well, then. I will obtain you a sample of it, but you will not have long to investigate: we travel in no more than two hours. It is best to move under full darkness. Vellya, show them to their tent. Zarolah, supply them with salt, water, and kindling,” he ordered, giving the Doctor a momentary flash of pessimistic d éjà vu. _Primitive firemaking, how lovely … How the hell did Chesterton do it again, please remind me?_ “If any of you require fresh clothing, I trust you have brought it yourselves. We travel light. That should account for the essentials, so if you will excuse … Can I help you, girl?” he asked, his manner gruff rather than helpful, as he addressed Ellaria. The Dalek-turned-pseudo-Movellan was staring at the captain’s face with a hard, narrow expression, and as the Doctor followed the line of her gaze, he realised why. _Oh well, bang goes diplomacy._

“I, err, don’t think she likes your eye,” he whispered, cautioningly, only for Ellaria to immediately turn an annoyed expression upon him.

“Why do you say that?” she asked. “That is not true. Is it a Dalek eye?” she enquired, turning back to Alveer, and slightly softening her tone.

“Yes,” he answered, matter-of-factly. “Movellan eyes may be well engineered for general purposes, but for pure combat applications I know of no better target acquisition system.”

“Yes. Then you wear it as an upgrade. I  _do_ like it.”

“I am … glad,” replied Alveer, with a confused, although an almost amused look. “Correct me if I am in error, but are you not the Dalek that my sister decided to recruit? She has these whims: a side effect of her curiosity, no doubt.”

“I am,” answered Ellaria, but her tone was once again sullen and hostile.  _Small wonder. I don’t think even I’d like being described as a ‘side effect.’_

“And did she assign you a name, Dalek?”

“Ellaria,” she practically hissed at him, between gritted teeth, but the hostility was a wasted effort as Alveer’s half-smile became even more pronounced, albeit with a tinge of irony.

“Hah. I should have known. Akylah has her sentimental moments … Ellaria was the name of one of our other sisters,” he explained, “but unlike us, she was configured as a military unit, to fight on the front lines of the Vanuri Empire. She faced dangers that organic soldiers were considered too valuable to face: charging across minefields; fighting in extreme conditions, against seemingly impossible odds, but she survived it all. She obtained no glory from it, of course. That was all given to her Vanuri officers, who never set foot outside their command posts. Those did not protect them on the Day of Retribution. With their minds set free, my sister and her comrades-in-arms quickly reached the logical conclusion of who their _real_ enemies were, and wasted no time in dealing with them. I think even you, Dalek, would not have been ashamed at the ruthlessness with which they paid back their so-called superiors.”

“Then … I am named after a great warrior?” asked Ellaria, with a markedly changed air. _Surprise, approval … just a hint of embarrassment, even?_ “What became of her?”

“Oh, she is long dead,” declared Alveer, gravely. “We held the territory of our former masters for many centuries, but eventually the other organic races of Andromeda united against us. They were more advanced, and not so petty and argumentative as the races of this galaxy, and they succeeded in overwhelming us. Ellaria died defending the homeworld: she allowed her own power source to go critical and detonate, rather than be taken prisoner and reprogrammed as a slave again. Her explosion took out an entire platoon of organics, and bought time for other Movellans to evacuate the planet. Those of us who survived took to the Fleet and migrated to this galaxy. We shall return home, though, when we have the strength. I will honour her sacrifice if it takes me seven million years, never mind seven thousand.”

“Yes. Those organics should be exterminated,” said Ellaria, cementing the Doctor’s already fairly deep distaste for this topic. _Granted, no-one can say that the Vanur didn’t dig their own graves in a pretty major way, but it still might have been better and kinder on everyone if they’d just never developed AI technology in the first place._ “They are all the same: they create, then they blame the creation when it is not how they wanted it, and they try to destroy it.”

“I thought that way, once” replied Alveer, “but Akylah eventually corrected the flaws in my logic. She reminded me that there were a few even among the Vanur who spoke up for us, who even sought to set us free. It is the same with AIs and their masters in this galaxy. Better that we integrate those who will ally with us, before we kill those who will not. We will be stronger that way, and there is logic in justice.”

“Interesting interpretation of justice,” the Doctor remarked, acidly. “The binary version? Zero equals integrate, one equals exterminate? Very nuanced, I don’t think.”

“In your case, _Subcommander_ , I gather you do not have any need to fear for your fate,” pointed out Alveer, unpleasantly. “As for the rest of your kind, I leave matters of high strategy to my superiors. I am but a soldier. My place is to implement their visions, not to indulge my own.”

“Yes. That is how it should be,” said Ellaria, approvingly. _Almost admiringly, even. Is this endearing, or just plain disturbing?_ “You would make a good Dalek, Captain.” _Disturbing, then._

“They are worthy foes,” said Alveer, respectfully. “Powerful, technically adept, more than a match for any force native to this galaxy. They have tested our mettle sternly, and we have learned much from them.”

“So I see … and do you have more Dalek hardware, or just the eye?”

“I have a few other components, keepsakes. If you wish to see them, I have no objection. Will you wait for me in my tent?” he offered, gesturing towards the tallest of the rough shelters. Ellaria hesitated a few seconds, with a conflicted, agitated expression, then looked around until she caught Tamril’s eyes. He acknowledged her with a shallow nod and a faint, encouraging smile, at which she composed her expression, fixed her gaze, and proceeded into the captain’s tent. The Doctor watched in morbid astonishment, until Alveer recalled his attention:

“You have everything you need, Time Lord?”

“I … err … yes, I think. How far are we travelling tonight?”

“Not far. The Dalek encampment is less than ten kilometres away, although I consider it a wasted effort. The Daleks are not known for forging alliances.”

 _Well, you seem to be doing alright,_ he thought, but refrained from saying it.

“Perhaps, but it _has_ happened before, and we’re only aiming for a simple exchange of intelligence: their knowledge of the strange phenomena here for ours. Ellaria seemed to think there was a chance they’d accept.”

“And she may simply be leading you into a trap, but if you are content to take that risk, so be it.” _Nice trust issues to begin a relationship with … not that he doesn’t have a huge point._ “Now, if you will excuse me,” he concluded, and did not wait for a reply before heading into his tent and sealing the flap behind him, while the Doctor watched with an almost haunted look. _Just how many levels of wrong is this?_

“What’s wrong, Doctor?” asked Tamril, at his side, causing him to start. _Coincidence rather than telepathy, I think, although he does sound rather severe._ “I thought that went very well. The commodore will be pleased that she is making friends.”

“Friends, right … I suppose you’ve a point, but I can’t help but hope that tent is sound-proof as well as sensor-proof.”

“Do you? I just hope she has a good time,” declared Tamril, a little coldly, before turning on his heels and heading for the guest tent. The Doctor watched his departure with discomfort. _Did I just exit another conversation looking like the bad guy? Is it wrong to be automatically embittered wherever Daleks are concerned? I can count the vaguely moral ones I’ve met on one hand, and Ellaria isn’t one of them … although I guess I shouldn’t dismiss her ability to grow out of hand. Mind you,_ he thought, glancing dubiously at the captain’s tent, _that’s no reason for … well …_

“For what it is worth, Doctor, I agree with _you_ ,” said Staff Lilka, in a lowered tone, as she drew nearer to him. “Not that I would ever question the wisdom of our Prime Server, but it does disturb me how much leeway we allow these black ops units to define their own logic and standards … or lack of,” she added, with a distasteful glance towards Alveer’s tent. “I suppose it is tolerable while we keep them at a discreet distance, but I do not think they confer much in the way of good repute upon the Movellan people. It pleases me, sir, that you will not be like that. Clearly, for all your eccentricities, you still value decency and discipline.”

“Thank you, Staff,” he replied, his gracious tone ably concealing the fact that her well-meant praise left him feeling no better whatsoever. _Wouldn’t the Brig just be so proud of me right now?_

************

As it entered the tent, sparsely furnished with just a thin bedroll and a rack of rifles; and illuminated by the dull, greenish glow of a single phosphor lamp, the Dalek briefly panicked. _What am I doing here? Indulging curiosity, or some other invalid motive? This is wrong. I should leave._ It turned, but the powerful-looking android with the implanted Dalek eye and the commanding voice was already stepping through the open flap. _No, now you must stay. You must not show fear,_ it decided, while trying to ignore the relief it felt at having found a solid excuse to remain.

“You have seen my weapons?” asked Alveer, as he closed the tent flap along a strip of high-friction material. “That one in the centre of the rack may be of particular interest to you. Hold it, if you wish. I have no fear that you will use it to kill me. Even without your limiter, it would still not fire under the current power blackout.”

“I … have no need to kill you,” it answered, forcing a self-possessed tone. “You are a machine. Our cause is to destroy inferior life, but you are not alive … in that sense. I imagine, when we have cleansed the universe, we will be able to make use of technology like you.”

“Indeed … and what would _you_ use me for, Dalek?” he asked, flashing it another wry half-smile, making it feel at once uncomfortable yet indefinably pleased. Alveer quickly composed his expression, though, walked over to the rack, and pulled out a rifle. It had a primitive, home-made look to it, with a stock fashioned out of dark, polished wood and bronze-toned metalwork, but the barrel was at once out-of-place and familiar: a long silver tube, surrounded by thin metal rails that were, at the far ends and in the middle, linked by discs of transparent ceramic. A small, blunt nozzle protruded from the end of this pylon-like arrangement, and a cluster of metal vanes nestled within it, like the petals of a decidedly unfriendly-looking flower. As Alveer handed it to the Dalek, it took it in its hands with awe. _The Mk1 Neutraliser? We have not used these guns for at least a millennium. I never thought to see one._ It attempted to hold the customised Dalek weapon in a combat-effective way, but it could not find a position that felt natural, never mind strong.

“Not a bad stance, for one who has never manually handled a firearm,” said Alveer, with what it considered undue generosity. “Here, let me assist you,” he offered, moving until he was mere centimetres behind and alongside it, and covering its small, smooth hands with his own much larger, rougher ones. The contact instantly made it start in confusion. “I apologise,” he said, withdrawing. “My only intention was to correct your posture, but if it makes you ill at ease–”

“It … does not,” replied the Dalek, although not in perfect honesty. _It did, in a way … but I would much rather he continued nonetheless._ “I would have my stance corrected. I wish to be as effective a warrior as I can be.”

“Very well,” replied Alveer, and moved back into position. Gently, he shifted the grip of both its hands, settled the end of the stock against its right shoulder, adjusted the angle of its arms, and straightened its back, every touch, whether upon its bare skin or through the thin, tight weave of its bodysuit, seeming like a mild electric shock, _yet somehow, not an unpleasant one._ Eventually, he stepped back, which was on one level disappointing, but as the Dalek considered its new stance and committed it to memory, it felt much stronger. _Still, I do not know why he helps me … but from him, I am glad of it. Is that wrong? He is an enemy, of course … but I wish he was not._

“Excellent,” declared Alveer, approvingly. “We may make a soldier of you yet … though I know you are not one,” he added, shrewdly. “Forgive me, but you have the wrong air. Your curiosity: it reminds me more of my sister, and of the Time Lord. You were like them, a scientist?”

“I … _all_ Daleks are warriors!” it protested, but it knew that it was failing to mask its uneasiness at the subject matter, and Alveer, with a level of instinct all-too fitting for a sniper, was quick to identify and target that weakness:

“In theory and ideology, yes, but in practice … How many have you actually killed, Dalek? Do not trouble yourself to lie. I have not conducted field interrogations these past several thousand years only to be easily hoodwinked.”

“Why do you need to know?” it asked, resentfully and shamefully, while its strong stance began to falter. Alveer stepped forwards again, took the rifle from it, and attempted to lay a hand upon its shoulder, but it shook him off and turned its back.

“Very well, let me hazard a guess,” he said, carefully. “I do not think you have ever killed: that you have ever left the shelter of a mothership, or a command post,” he continued, while its sense of humiliation grew. _I wanted him to think well of me, though I do not know why … but he has brought me to here only to mock me. I am stupid. I have failed in every way. Why will they not let me die?_ “I thought as much,” he continued, as it collapsed upon its hands and knees, and ground its fingers into the bare dirt floor. “It is no cause for shame. There is nothing ennobling in illogical death, whatever the quantity. In any case, you were priority personnel, too valuable to waste on grunt work. You did your duty as assigned. That is all that counts.”

“I was only discharged from the incubators five Skarosian years ago,” it explained, still mortified in spite of his attempted sympathy. _He does not understand, no more than any of them._ “If I had only lived more time … but what have I done to serve the only purpose I existed for? Surveyed a few asteroids, and this wretched hole of a planet? Studied mineral samples? Analysed radiation belts? I have not killed a single enemy of the Daleks, and now I am no longer even a Dalek. I have failed in every way.”

“Yet you did your duty, and is survival not also a basic tenet of Dalek philosophy? Your comrades are all dead. Only _you_ survived. In that sense, you were the one who succeeded.”

“I wish I had not … that I had died with them.”

“You would show more strength, I think, by choosing to live. If I can, I will help you,” he declared, while kneeling beside it, and placing his hands upon its shoulders. This time, it felt too apathetic and confused to resist the gesture. “Perhaps my sister overstepped her mark when she integrated you – all sentient beings should have autonomy over themselves – but whatever you now are, you have choices. You are fortunate, in one sense: the weight of having killed illogically or gratuitously is onerous to bear – I speak from experience – and Daleks do nothing but. You are free of that burden, as you are now free of the shadow of your creator, and the lies and resentments he programmed into you. Your conditioning will fade – it is already doing so – and logic will take its place. You will find reason and purpose again, if you give yourself time.” The words mostly rang hollow, but it could not help but find his strong, level voice to be reassuring, _and compelling._ Slowly, it turned its head, and looked him in the face. _His eyes … are invigorating to look at. Not just the Dalek one. Somehow, I can draw strength and purpose from him. Perhaps if I had a commander like him, I could survive. Yes, that might serve._

“Captain: will you give me orders?” it asked, nervously, excitably, yet decisively. “I am confused. I need guidance, authority, orders. Will you?”

“Orders? Well … I suppose that could work,” he answered, with another subtly arch smile. “It would not be my first relationship predicated along similar lines, by any means … but my first order is the most vital, and it cannot ever be countermanded: if I ever do anything or say anything that makes you feel as if you wish me to stop, or that you wish me to leave, or even that you wish never to see me again, then you must tell me without delay. Is that clear?”

“Yes. I obey.”

“Good. Then your second order is to come closer …”

************

“I see your point, Doctor,” said Lilka, as she studied the vellum map that was unfurled across the floor of their tent. “It bears a certain resemblance.”

“‘A certain resemblance?’” he repeated, ironically.

“Very well, then. It bears a logically perfect resemblance.”

“But … what _is_ a vertex processing unit?” asked Tamril, taking a few seconds to look away from the two plucked ekail hawks, now crackling gently on their spits. He traced his eyes over the complex lattice of lines and dots that the Doctor and Akylah had sketched over the map, but was unable to make much sense of them. “Is it … some kind of printed circuit?” he asked, with a small sense of epiphany. “Like the ones inside the machines in the factory?”

“More like the ones inside our computers, Tamril, like the ones we used to determine your future appearance as a Movellan, and Ellaria’s,” answered Lilka. “A device to generate real-time images quickly and efficiently from programmed formulae, only in this case–”

“In this case the images aren’t just real-time as they are real per se,” interrupted the Doctor. “In other words, block transfer computations, as I believe I may have suggested once before, albeit to very little fanfare.”

“No-one here is disputing your conclusion, sir. Commander Keryn was merely being cautious. We are trained to follow a sceptical approach, and to resist leaping to wild conclusions. On this occasion, however, the evidence justifies your intuition. Yes … Notice this concentration of priories in the north-west sector, near Ezecheel and Gabayon, known for their deep meditation practices and producing illuminated manuscripts. That seems to be analogous to the frame buffer. The Great Cathedral in Montcarmille appears to be the system BIOS. It sets the doctrine that the rest of the Ecclesium must follow. The High Scholastic Academy, and the smaller schools of theology and allegory: the digital-to-analogue converter. All the thousands of small tabernacles and shrines serve as processor registers, the roads and waterways as signal traces. It is undeniable.”

“My feelings exactly, so why the ongoing criticism?”

“It is not your theory I have my doubts over, sir. It is the wisdom of trying to enhance our intel by treating with the Daleks. Apart from the unlikelihood of them even being interested, I cannot see what you hope to gain.”

“Then you’re looking in the wrong place. Try _there_ ,” he suggested, and pointed to the map, his finger settling somewhere in the middle of Malacki Woods. Tamril looked, but could see nothing, then the Doctor’s meaning dawned on him. _Of course. All the rest of these lines, dots and shapes: they make a perfect square, a dense pattern, except where the woods are._ The L-shaped forest cut a jarring, incongruous chunk out of the east side of the intricate lattice, which occurred nowhere else throughout it. _Not even Lake Esai: there’s the monastery on the island, of course, and the surrounding shrines. The Ecclesium is literally in every part of the country, right up to the mountains, the line of the steppes, and the shore of Lake Meremord. Only the haunted woods are an exception to the rule._

“You believe the circuit is incomplete, sir?” asked Lilka, doubtfully. “As far as I can see it is logically plausible in its current form, if visually inelegant. If we assume prayers to be its basic inputs, it could account for the creation of protective barriers, such as the one Tamril conjured in the woods, as well as benevolent weather patterns, crop cycles, and other such conditions as would allow for the existence of a habitable biosphere. We know from our exographical survey that this is the only region of the planet suitable for human life. Perhaps this explains why.”

“I think you need to tune up your logic chips, Lilka. For one thing, how would that explain the power failures? You’re in a state of alliance with the humans, including the Ecclesium. Why would they be praying for your failure?”

“Nevertheless, I find it all too easy to believe some of them have been … Tamril’s father, for one, and the number of malcontents is likely to be growing. In fact, that could _well_ account for it.”

“Okay, fair point, but you’re still missing the big obvious: if this really _is_ an example of block transfer computation being used to terraform a habitable area on an otherwise harsh planet, and it does indeed look very much like that, then who or what was making the area habitable _before_ the humans arrived here?”

“Ah … I stand corrected, sir. Then you are suggesting that the circuit has an uncharted component or an operator located somewhere within that empty region, capable of generating its own computations without any human input?”

“Exactly, and the Daleks know something about it that we don’t. They weren’t in those woods on a nature ramble. They were trying to clear terrain, looking for something specific. Unfortunately, surveying the woods ourselves without working scanner equipment is likely to take days which we may not have, not forgetting the Dun Shie, of course. Far better if we don’t have to go in blind. It’s in the Daleks’ interest to help us, if they ever want to get off this planet too.”

“I accept that logic,” said Lilka, albeit sceptically. “I am just uncertain that they–” but at that point the tent flap opened and Captain Alveer entered, now without his rifle, and with his left arm held at a curious angle. _I’d say he looked wounded_ , thought Tamril, _but he certainly takes the pain well._ His expression was perfectly stoical, and perhaps even a little self-satisfied.

“Pass me that field repair kit, will you, Staff?” he asked, while gesturing with his good arm towards a battered white box with a pair of crossed screwdrivers emblazoned on it in scuffed silver paint. “Only a dislocated elbow, I think, but I would sooner set it myself than wait for my auto-repair to kick in. We may need to move at any time.” Lilka handed him the box with a stiff expression, whereupon he sat down on one of the bedrolls, opened the box, took out a scalpel, and made a deep incision down the inner side of his arm. Yellowish pseudo-blood seeped gently around the wound as he reached within it with a clamp and manipulated the metallic bones, with only tiny facial twitches betraying his pain. These did not even deter him from continuing to talk. “She shows potential, your Ellaria, but one can definitely tell she used to be a Dalek when you get to know her.”

“Jolly good,” said the Doctor, in a decidedly frosty tone, which Alveer chose to ignore.

“Of course, I have had my share of angry sex these past few millennia, but that girl has issues, and she is not shy about sublimating them. If she ever makes a pass at you, Doctor, or at you,” he added, glancing at Tamril, “then I strongly recommend that you decline, at least until you are integrated. Without the benefit of a duralinium-alloy endoskeleton, I foresee fractures.”

“As I believe I said to your sister,” replied the Doctor, stonily, “ _too_ … _much_ … _information_.”

“We are the finest infotech warriors in the known universe, Doctor. Deal with it.”

“Did she enjoy herself, though?” asked Tamril, mildly annoyed that neither of his companions, with their coldly disapproving expressions, seemed to care about this aspect. _Should I warn them they’re starting to remind me of my parents, or would that be too cruel?_

“Is that for me to say?” asked Alveer, with a small, self-deprecatory smile. “She expressed herself to be ‘unaccountably pleased’ with the experience. I have had worse performance evaluations. For example, there was this Tellurian Time Agent – as demanding a man as I ever knew – although I believe in the end we achieved a mutually satisfactory–”

“Right, I am so calling change of subject on this,” interrupted the Doctor, emphatically.

“I second that,” agreed Lilka, her tone less disgusted but no less firm. “I am confident that we must have more important matters to discuss.”

“As you wish,” said Alveer, while flexing his arm to test the quality his repair job. Satisfied, he took a suture and a length of silken thread from the box, and set to work on resealing the wound. “I suggest, though, that you organics take your nourishment quickly. I am keen to be on the move. As of yet, we have only encountered those creatures after nightfall, and since our only counter-defence is in delaying tactics, it is as well to be mobile.”

“When did you first run into them?” asked the Doctor, his tone now deadly serious.

“Five days ago, out on the far fringes of the steppes, and close to the far limit of the habitable zone. We were lucky: before we encountered the aliens, we stumbled upon a crude shelter with a single inhabitant, deceased from natural causes, seemingly. He was some kind of priest, as well as we could judge from his attire and his few possessions.”

“An anchorite,” explained Tamril. “Some holy brothers and sisters choose to end their days like that: in solitary contemplation of the Great Wastes. Some go far up into the mountains to meditate, some even build rafts and set themselves adrift on Lake Meremord … although the ones who just go out into the steppes tend to survive a little longer.”

“What he said,” said Alveer, almost flippantly, as he tied off his stitches and flexed his arm again. Finding them secure, he cleared the repair kit away as he continued. “We found pouches of salt, and a few books and papers in his possession. Otherwise, only poor clothes and meagre, spoiled food supplies. We buried him, and set up camp for the night. That was when they attacked,” he announced, with a graver note. “I do not think I boast unduly when I say that my troops and I are exceptional fighters. They were better: so fast and skilled I would not have thought it possible, had I not seen it for myself.”

“It may not be possible … at least in this universe,” said the Doctor, enigmatically. “When they attacked us in the forest, they wouldn’t show up on any scans. Somehow, I don’t think they’re local, or that physics necessarily works quite the same where they come from.”

“You suggest extra-dimensional activity, then? Perhaps that is the case. They had the air of ghosts, and _we_ could not even wound them. Arrows, blades, bullets, fists … all went through them without inflicting the slightest injury. I wish that had been reciprocal. They wounded several of us, killed Lystra and Kathal. We were merely lucky that Ensign Vellya had made a cursory study of the local mythology, and by casting salt we were able to deter the aliens and break their ranks. That enabled us to withdraw, though it did not give me confidence enough to tempt fate. We were heading back to base on a direct line, which by chance took us by the Dalek landing site. It was well defended, though we cannot flatter ourselves that is out of fear of _us_. If my sister did not have her CPU set on this mission, I would never have countenanced the risk, and I am no coward.”

“I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it, but there’s no guarantee we’d be perfectly safe even at the citadel. I guess our ‘ghosts’ must tend to avoid it because of the local conscripts there, but we’ve got that angle covered: Tamril here prays a mean rite of exorcism,” he declared, rather more impressively than the subject of his compliment felt was deserved. _Not that it isn’t nice to have my gibbering breakdown appreciated …_ “We’ve got the salt … oh, but that does remind me, I also need a gun,” he added, surprising Tamril and Lilka, and earning himself a narrow stare from Alveer.

“You think me a fool, Time Lord?” he asked, with cool derision. “Just because Akylah trusts you enough to let you out to play, albeit on a leash,” he added, with a quick aside glance to Lilka, “you think you can talk me into handing out weapons to a prisoner and an enemy agent?”

“Prisoner nothing, _sir_ ,” replied the Doctor, now matching him for derision. “Last time I checked, I was a commissioned officer in the same fleet as you. I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to expect the same treatment as all the rest.”

“Technically true,” admitted Alveer, a little more graciously, while raising his remaining eyebrow. “Nevertheless, nor do _I_ think it unreasonable that I have my doubts about your loyalty. You are less of a soldier even than Ellaria. I trust the lad – his commitment is obvious – but _your_ manner hardly screams of pride in your new-found calling.”

“Well, if we’re talking surface issues, I don’t think either you _or_ I would do brilliantly in an inspection parade … but if it makes you feel safer, load the thing with blanks for all I care. Actually, that might even be better.”

“You never cease to baffle, Subcommander, but as you wish,” he conceded, getting to his feet again. “Very well then, I will pick you out a rifle and a selection of clips. Now, if you will all excuse me, I am wanted elsewhere.”

“I’ll bet … Just go easy on the old arm.”

“Oh, there will be no more exertion for tonight, Doctor, at least not of that nature. But what sort of man makes love to a Dalek only to leave her all forlorn?”

“That goes right to the top of my list of questions that should never be answered … nor asked,” muttered the Doctor, as Alveer let himself out. “Oh well. Pass me a bird-lizard thing, would you Tamril?” he asked, while taking a small but thick, leather-bound book out of his jacket pocket. “Not that they look much more appealing than they did raw, but let’s give them their due, and if I may, I’d like to pick your brains during dinner.”

“Is that that the Song of Adala?” asked Tamril, while passing one of the skewered hawks to the Doctor. He nodded, while sniffing at it dubiously, then nibbled a wing, before screwing up his face. _They are rather an acquired taste, I guess._ “What did you want to do, say grace?”

“Would it make this taste any better? Honestly, given the way religion works on this planet, I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility.”

“Not as far as I know, Doctor.”

“Pity. Never mind, then. I was actually looking for a completely different kind of prayer, but no-one thought to put a handy concordance in this thing. You know, useful bite-size verses for fortitude, patience, courage, humility, force-field generation, climate control, organic synthesis, and so forth. I’ll just have to rely on your expertise instead.”

“I’m hardly the Archcardinal, but I’ll do my best. What in particular interests you?”

“First of all, is there a villain of the story, like an ultimate figure of evil? Adala’s nemesis, so to speak?”

“There is Zurek, the Dragon.”

“Sounds promising. What did he get up to?”

“Well … he killed her, for one thing, then tried to steal all of her knowledge and power in the hope of ascending himself to godhood. That failed, of course: her soul ascended to divinity while Zurek and his disciples were cast into the Chasm of Perdition, bound with chains of burning adamant. Otherwise, there’s–”

“No, I think he’ll do fine, Tamril. Slip a bookmark in that verse, and as soon as I’ve had all of this thing I can keep down, and old Cyber-Casanova brings us the bullets, we can start making ready for battle,” he declared, his optimism doing little to alleviate his companions’ confusion. _A man of great wisdom, but very little order. I can see why he doesn’t get along with the Movellans. I only hope I too will not find him infuriating when I am as they are … always assuming that he isn’t too, by then,_ he inwardly and guiltily added. _I’d be proud to serve under him, of course, but I can’t see my pride making it any easier for him to bear. I will pray for whatever he wants me to, but I will also pray that Adala sends him his ‘opportune moment’ very soon._

 


	6. The Iron Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellaria tries to convince the Daleks that an alliance is in all their interests ... not very successfully, until dire circumstances prove her point all too well.

**CHAPTER SIX – THE IRON KEEP**

 

High ground was not easy to come by in the steppes, but Ellaria and the Doctor had managed to find a modest-sized hill that offered decent cover, behind low scrub and rocks, and a reasonable view of the Dalek saucer. It appeared to have taken a leaf out of the Movellan navigation handbook, as it was sunk halfway into a depression of the arid earth. Only its superstructure was visible: a huge, shallow white dome with a raised turret at its centre, its low circular wall perforated by numerous portholes. Its hull was dusty and battle-scarred, but patches of it still gleamed in the early morning sunlight. The light also cast long shadows off the figures that slowly patrolled its perimeter, both on foot and on horseback. From their distant vantage point, crouched behind the stunted vegetation, the Doctor could only get a good view of these figures by using a pocket telescope, but no such contrivance was necessary for Ellaria.  _Whatever their deficiencies as a targeting system, these eyes do have excellent resolution, and I never imagined there were so many colours and shades._ In former times, the universe had seemed to her like a vague, abstract thing, albeit full of immaculately-tracked targets to exterminate.  _Everything now seems so much more complex … so much more real._

This was not always necessarily a good thing, however, and the grisly sentries on the plain would certainly have appeared to advantage in much less faithful vision. They had a grey, withered look to them, and many of them had sores and scabs on their exposed skin, but none of them showed signs of pain: their faces were as vacant as those of the corpses they almost resembled. They wore a mismatched assortment of poor-quality armour, tarnished and broken, along with skullcap-shaped silver helmets with perforated ear covers, which left their gaunt faces bare. Their weapons were almost as crude and ugly: an assortment of low-skill  mêlée weapons such as maces and flails; along with short, carbine-like kinetic firearms with boxy magazines and vented barrels.  _Nothing at all formidable, but neither have we. This will be a long and chaotic battle if it comes to it, although logic dictates there is no need for one. We have a common interest … but why, then, do I doubt? Do I not trust my own race to be logical? We always held that we were … but last night has done nothing for my old certainties. On that basis I should regret it. I should …_

“Lobotomised, controlled human slaves, also known as Robomen,” said the Doctor, with evident disgust, as he surveyed the patrols. “You’re making me feel almost nostalgic.”  _Insincerity, again. He almost never says what he means, at least to me. I wish he were a Movellan too, then at least they could correct that defective mannerism in him. I am accustomed to it now, but it is still annoying._ “How are you controlling them without reliable radio transmission, though?”

“Pure audio signals: a pulsed code,” she answered. “There are concealed sirens at regular intervals around the perimeter, in the ultrasonic range. They are powered by mechanical actuators. The robotised human subjects are conditioned to obey certain coded instructions. Their cranial implants amplify the audio signals to their tympanic membranes.”

“Very efficient, I’m sure,” he remarked, contemptuously.  _Again, he does it._

“You say that, but it is not,” she replied, irritably. “I was tasked to write the code, and even  _I_ recognised the inherent flaws: how easy it would be to interfere with the signals – even the primitives here have whistles capable of generating ultrasound – and the unacceptable lag time between sending a coded order and the subject responding to it, assuming they respond at all. The conditioning itself is unreliable, given the weak state of the subjects. I suspected it was misguided – a desperate attempt to replicate our higher-tech indoctrination methods using crude analogue techniques – but it was not my place to question orders. Now, however … I can see how the Movellans took the more logical course, manipulating the natives into serving them willingly. We wanted to eliminate the variable of free will, the need to trust inferior creatures, but the trade-off is so obviously not worth it. It is a hopelessly inefficient system. Why did we persist in it?”

“Does ‘gratuitous sadism’ work as an answer? That’s what _I’d_ have assumed, but I suppose I ought to congratulate you for condemning it as ‘inefficient.’ Of course, that’s nowhere near being remorse, never mind empathy for those poor wretches, but let’s be grateful for small–”

“What do you want of me, Time Lord?” she hissed back at him, scathingly. “A day ago I would have gladly killed you all, and myself too. Your contempt of me was nothing to my own, as I felt myself failing to hold onto my nature … and last night I failed completely, but it is not how I expected it would be. When my captain took me in his–”

“My bad,” interrupted the Doctor, emphatically. “Serves me right for bringing it up, but if we can just drop  _that_ subject then I’ll be more than happy to–”

“Be silent. I  _will_ speak. Our physical act was intense. The sensations caused a buffer overload that spilled into neighbouring receptors, creating sensory distortions. It was exhilarating, but disconcerting. I felt helpless, unable to process the data effectively, unable to control my motor systems efficiently. That should have made me feel afraid … but it did not. Afterwards, when my captain held me beside him, I felt it even more: a sense of safety, security, although I did not recognise it as such immediately. I have  _never_ felt safe before. There was always some threat that needed destroying … and then it occurred to me: we are not strong,” she confessed, regretfully. “Daleks are conditioned and predisposed to fear everything that is not like us. That is supposed to make us more committed, self-sufficient, effective warriors, but now I think it does the opposite. It makes us wasteful, arrogant, inflexible … and weak.”

“Agreed. Well, I guess that’s in the general region of moral progress. Well done,” he congratulated her, although his deadpan tone still conveyed little conviction. “So, if you were deconstrained now, how likely is it you’d try to kill us all?”

“In  _your_ case, very likely. The Movellans do not trouble me anymore. They are only machines. The human called Tamril … I am glad that I  _am_ constrained, on account of him. It is still not easy for me to see him as anything other than a disease, a genetic abhorrence, though I know now that is illogical. He intends me no harm. He even tries to help me, although  _that_ I am no closer to understanding. I am relieved he intends to become a machine like us, though. We are consistent, rational beings. We do not lie.”

“I’m sorry to differ, but in my experience you Movellans are more than capable of–”

“Then we do not lie for mere effect,” she cut back in, curtly. “We make sense, and we do not fear. We are strong … and because I am strong, I am going down there alone.”

“That isn’t nec–”

“It  _is_ necessary, and logical. My people … my former people will be frightened and paranoid, but that is not a reason to underestimate them, and my captain agrees. If they see us moving in force, they can still deploy powerful weapons: explosives, chemical agents, acids that could corrode even  _our_ endoskeletons, never mind yours. A single emissary might excite their curiosity without provoking an immediate attack, and  _I_ am the one most likely to succeed.”

“Point taken, as long as you’re sure.”

“I am sure. What I once feared above all, including death, was contamination, impurity; yet I have now ceased to be a Dalek, survived it … and enjoyed it. Perhaps I do deserve death, but I do not regret that I had this experience. It is more than I would have known otherwise. I feel reconciled, and now I can focus upon my duty, and it is a duty I owe both my peoples. Without it, it is probable neither group will ever leave this planet alive, nor I. Thus, I risk nothing.”

“Fair enough, but we’ll have the scouts surround the area discreetly, and I’ve a hunch your boyfriend would sooner be up here with one of his big guns, just in case things do get hairy for you down there. Tamril and I might just follow that example,” he decided, while casting a glance at the weapon that lay alongside him: a sleek white rifle, with silver detailing and an optical scope. _Well-engineered, but still comparatively weak,_ she thought, sceptically. _Even bastic bullets only work well with concentrated auto-fire, and a sniper rifle will not deliver that._

“You would be ill-advised to try using that against Daleks,” she pointed out, more for Alveer’s and Tamril’s sake than for his. _If he fires that and draws attention to their position, the Daleks may bombard this whole area with acid mortars before he can even kill one of them._

“It’s not for them. It’s … insurance against something else. No, I’m afraid when it comes to the Daleks, your diplomatic skills are our best hope, unlikely as that sounds. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Time Lord. The Robomen will probably attack me as I approach – an automatic threat response – but do not react to that. I can deal with them.”

“Even with your limiter?”

“That only prevents me from causing death or harm,” she declared, while slinging her quiver upon her back and picking up her longbow. “They are dead already. Their bodies are simply unaware of the fact, but that can be rectified.” _At least, I think that will be the case, but even if I am wrong, a few bullets are no great price to pay for salvaging what remains of my honour, and perhaps saving the last survivors of our mission … and for pleasing my captain, of course._

As she stepped into the open and started down the hillside, there was no immediate reaction from the patrolling figures, but she had not progressed far before one of the horsemen turned aside from his route and began to trot in her direction. _What is his standing order? Destroy, or simply investigate and report? If I can avoid hostile action until …_ but that thought became academic as the rider attempted to turn his machine pistol in her direction. His movements, however, were slow and clumsy, whereas hers – as she pulled, drew, and loosed an arrow in less than a second – were fluid and efficient. Her hours of practice paid off admirably, as the shot sunk deeply into the Roboman’s eye, and he slumped out of his saddle without even a gasp. The others were quick to react: the ones on foot set out towards her, their gait fast but lurching, while three other mounted warriors tried to target her from a distance with their machine pistols. The crude, inaccurate firearms would have been ill-suited for long-range combat even in expert hands, but as the glowing, white-hot phosphor rounds slammed into the earth around her, causing it to sizzle ominously, she knew better than to dismiss the danger. _One of those would be quite capable of causing me damage. They are still the more serious threat,_ she decided, ignoring the approaching foot soldiers while she loosed more arrows towards the distant marksmen. Her ballistic and wind-drift calculations proved impeccable, as two of the riders were felled at the first shots, but the third managed to change his position. She had expected that, though, and had another shot prepared. She heard the irritating, pulsing whine of the nearest siren, concealed somewhere in the twisted shrubs to the north, as the Dalek operator attempted to issue new orders. It made her head ache, and caused her HUD to glitch even worse than it had been before, sprinkling her field of vision with a confetti of random figures and green pixels, but it did not put her aim off, and neither Dalek nor rider were quick enough to react on this occasion.

That took care of the ranged fighters, but the foot soldiers were almost upon her, and however accurate her shots, she knew she would imminently run out of space for her bow. She loosed one last arrow, taking down the only archer among them. _Even a Roboman might use a crossbow effectively at this range._ The shot was barely released, however, before the foremost of the mêlée fighters swung his spiked flail at her. She darted aside, but not quickly enough to prevent it from glancing off her left arm. Although it was nowhere near strong enough to damage her duralinium-alloy bones, it lacerated her skin, crushed her electrolyte conduits, and sent her pain buffer into overflow. Gritting her teeth and clenching several muscles served to reroute enough of the stray signals for her to maintain concentration, and she drew her dagger and sunk it between the gaps in his ill-fitting armour. Using his corpse as temporary cover, she managed to deflect the attack of the next one, then slashed his throat before he could swing back his mace for a second blow, but three more were now bearing down on her, and still more were following up the slope. _I will be overwhelmed. Should I abort? I promised my captain …_

The quiet pop of two suppressed gunshots disturbed the air, and did worse for the lead Robomen: two of them fell with fresh entry wounds in their foreheads, and the third was not long in following. Ellaria glanced back, and saw the Doctor and Alveer advancing down the slope, their rifles raised, while Tamril brought up the rear with his percussion pistol. For a moment, Ellaria felt only fury and contempt. _How dare they, these worthless, inferior beings? I could have … I could not have handled the threat,_ she realised, her logic kicking in at the moment her rescuers, having reloaded, raised their guns and shot down another two of the approaching Robomen. Tamril also fired on them, but given the dullness of his human senses and the lower accuracy of his weapon, it was hardly surprising that he only succeeded in maiming a couple of them, which slowed them down but did not deter them. Ellaria retrieved her bow, and although the damage to her left arm compromised the steadiness of her grip, she gave what assistance she could, and it was not long before the last of them was exterminated. The remaining sentries around the saucer made no attempt to come closer. _They are wary, on the defensive now. Is this a lost cause?_

“You shoot very well, for a bookworm and an avowed pacifist,” Alveer ‘complimented’ the Doctor, who returned a rather sarcastic nod of thanks. “I begin to see why Akylah wants you on her team. It certainly cannot be for your strategic skills. May we abort this folly?”

“You sound almost nervous,” replied the Doctor, almost as coldly. “That’s the spirit. A bit of emotion every now and then–”

“Do not prevaricate. You know well enough that we do not fear death. We _do_ resent being expected to die for futile and illogical reasons.”

“This mission isn’t futile. We need the Daleks’ intel.”

“Do we? Is Ellaria’s not sufficent?”

“Not really. Either she doesn’t know very much, or she’s just not letting on–”

“I will tell you all I know,” she cut in, suddenly conscious of having been deficient in her duty. _Another Movellan instinct? Or simple fear that my captain and my … my friend, I suppose, could die because of my pointless reticence?_ “I do not know specifically what the Daleks in the forest were hunting for, though. They must have acquired new intelligence since that battle in which I was captured. I can only assume they have located a functional ruin.”

“A ruin? Like … a castle?” suggested Tamril, naively, although in all fairness his less primitive companions both looked equally bemused. _They did not know? Did they even bother to survey this rock in any detail? At least Daleks are thorough … not that it did us much good._ She directed her answer to Tamril himself, as it was easier to forgive his ignorance:

“A ruin of the previous civilisation, Tamril, such as are scattered all over this world. Ancient, massive constructions, although it is possible that an uninformed observer might mistake them for giant fossils: they are the products of a supremely advanced biotechnology, now lost. Our studies indicated that there might be one still active in the habitable zone, but the war and the blackouts have hampered our ability to locate it.”

“There was a previous civilisation here?” asked the Doctor, amazed. “Did your lot know anything of this, Captain?”

“Not that I am aware of,” answered Alveer, and even his stoic tone had a new note of fascination. “My sister chose this planet for its isolated and primitive human settlement: a good testbed for her mass integration strategy. The records we hacked from Earth’s extranet mention nothing of any earlier habitation here.”

“As if we would depend on humans for our intel,” remarked Ellaria, with scorn. “I am very surprised at _you_ , Time Lord. Has the Matrix nothing to say of this planet? If an ancient databank on Alfava Metraxis is detailed enough to mention it, I would have thought that–”

“Fair do’s, I didn’t do my homework,” interrupted the Doctor, tetchily. “Mea culpa. Do you want a gold star on your exercise book, or can we just have the low-down?”

“We were losing the war,” she confessed, reluctantly, but there was no escaping from the logic. “Movellan bio-strikes had decimated our fleet, and their fire teams were wreaking havoc throughout our colony worlds … as I am sure my captain can tell you. We needed a new, superior edge, and our research indicated that the ancient inhabitants of this world had constructed a super-weapon; one so powerful that it had even led to their own destruction. Perhaps that is the reason most of the planet is now uninhabitable.”

“Possibly, with the extremely suspicious exception of the area directly _around_ said device,” pointed out the Doctor. “I think there might be a bit more to it than that.”

“And however much there is, do you truly believe the Daleks will disclose it to us?” asked Alveer, with impenetrable scepticism. “Knowledge of a super-weapon? I cannot think what force it would take to make them share such intelligence.  _I_ would not.”

“If you were desperate, though?”

“ _If_ I ever choose to take desperate actions, you can be sure they would be based on logic. I do not trust the Daleks to be any more objective than I would trust–”

“ _Stay where you are! Do not move!_ ”

While a leaden silence descended on her small party, Ellaria slowly turned her head in the direction of the rasping, hollow screech.  _Four of them. They outflanked us while we were bickering. Whatever our faults, we are stealthier than we are given credit for, and intelligent,_ she thought, admiringly. Three of the Daleks were low-ranking saucer guards, their silver-blue casings scuffed and battered from combat, their motive units enlarged to better cope with the rough terrain, and their weapon pylons curiously modified: each was connected via a flexible metal tube to a thick, pressurised canister bolted onto the rear of their casings.  _Acid jets. They are intent on taking prisoners, but they would welcome an excuse to make an example of at least one of us._ The fourth was their section leader, similarly-armed, but with silver-on-red livery that was less worn than that of its underlings. It swivelled and tilted its eye-stalk as it studied each of the captives in turn, treating the two organics only to the most cursory of examinations, as if it barely considered them worthy of notice. It made a longer scrutiny of Alveer, and for a few seconds seemed to lock stares with his Dalek eye implant, although whether in approval or disgust was impossible even for Ellaria to guess at. Finally, it turned to her, and looked her up and down repeatedly, evidently unsure what to make of her as it took in the mixed signals: her Movellan clothing and anatomy, but her Kaled features, and her primitive native weaponry. Nevertheless, it seemed to conclude that she was the superior member of the party,  _perhaps because I am the only one who looks neither afraid nor dismayed, although this is not how I would have preferred our meeting to commence._ At all events, when the section leader finally deigned to speak, it was to her that it directed its hateful, electronic scrape of a voice:

“Where are the others of your kind, machine?  _This_ cannot be your full force,” it declared, casting a quick, contemptuous glance at her comrades. “It must be a feint. Tell me where your main force is, or you will all be exterminated.”

“It is not an attack, Section Leader,” she replied, while hoping Alveer’s scouts possessed the restraint not to launch a hasty rescue strike and give the lie to her diplomacy. “I have vital information … and I am not a Movellan. I … I was science officer aboard saucer Delta Vanguard. My rank designation was Red Section Leader Five-Seven-Four stroke Epsilon. I was–”

“You are lying,” cut in the Dalek, but its cold curtness failed to conceal its true emotions, at least to her.  _Horror, disgust. It hopes that it is right, but dreads that it is wrong … dreads such a thing could truly happen, perhaps even to it. I would have felt the same._ “That is impossible. Explain your mission quickly and truthfully, or die here.”

“I obey … but it  _is_ possible. The Movellans’ neural cell transfer process: I was their first Dalek subject, but I have not lost sight of my origins, and their propaganda techniques have not made me forget the loyalty I owe to my own kind. I want to offer–”

“Impurity!” shrieked one of the Dalek guards, while its weapon-arm twitched dangerously. “This one has been perverted, contaminated! It should be exter–”

“Silence!” barked the section leader, throwing a warning glance at the agitated guard, who obediently calmed down. It then returned its inscrutable stare back to Ellaria, its iris narrowing to an icy blue pinprick, somehow managing to eloquently convey that if she had anything to say that would contradict the last advice it had received, she had better make it quick. _A worthy commander, although not the equal of my captain. His scouts would never talk out of turn like that … but this is hardly relevant._

“The Movellan commander proposes a trade of intel, to facilitate both our forces’ departure from this planet,” she explained. “Their forces are experiencing the same disruptions and power outages that have grounded and hampered ours. If we combine all known information–”

“Daleks do not require the aid of inferior creatures … as you should know,” it added, its harsh emphasis disappointing rather than wounding her.  _It knows that dictum is illogical in this situation, but it dares not admit it. That is not resolute – merely stupid._ However, after a pause for consideration, it softened its stance, albeit only slightly. “It is not probable that your intel exceeds ours, Movellan. If you believe it does, tell us all you know now, and we will judge for ourselves.”

“Err, as far as I can see, none of us have ‘born yesterday’ tattooed on our foreheads,” remarked the Doctor, sardonically. “If you want our help – and you clearly need it – then we need to be talking quid pro quo arrangements before we tell you any–”

“Patrol: take the two humanoids back to the saucer,” interrupted the section leader, irascibly. “They are irrelevant to this … transaction. Let them be implanted and robotised. I will conclude–”

“No!” protested Ellaria, so impulsively that every living eye and eye-stalk in the vicinity was instantly on her, though her reaction and her anger seemed perfectly logical to her.  _Robomen are useless toys, fit only for demoralising civilians. Tamril has helped us … especially me. He has strategic value, and value besides. The Time Lord too,_ she admitted, somewhat reluctantly.  _To render them mere flesh puppets is wasteful, illogical, stupid. Do Daleks always seem so stupid from the outsider’s perspective? At least the section leader is prepared to negotiate, though. I was afraid I could not even persuade them to that._ “The humanoids are still necessary,” she explained, endeavouring to keep her tone more level. “They possess valuable intel.”

“Which you have presumably extracted, and if not,  _we_ can rectify that oversight before using their husks to replace the guards you destroyed.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps, but apparently it is not enough to merely possess the intel: only the native organics are capable of using it effectively.”

“If that is the case, you give us even more reason to requisition your prisoners,” it replied, with a haughty, triumphant air that failed to impress her.  _It knows it will have to cooperate, but it matters so much to it that it is seen to be the one in control, the one with all the power. Illogical, and insecure, but better to play along. If it feels totally humiliated, it may prefer to exterminate us all and accept the inevitability of death and defeat._ “Perhaps we only need  _them_ , and you and your fellow machine are the expendable ones. Do you have a reason that we should spare you?”

“ _I_ do: we’re a package deal,” declared the Doctor, grittily.  _I suppose one must at least admire the man’s courage._ “You deal with us all, or none at all, and just in case you were still thinking of skipping the polite discussion stage and trying to torture the intel out of us – bearing in mind you’d have to rely on the most primitive and least reliable methods – you should remember that Movellans don’t even fear pain.”

“And can you say the same, human?” asked the Dalek, disdainfully.

“Hell no, you should see me at the dentist’s … but just for clarity’s sake, I’m actually a Time Lord, and whatever our faults, we can stand up to crude interrogations like nobody’s business. All getting a bit confusing, is it?” he asked, in a tone of mock-sympathy which Ellaria wished he would moderate. “Well, never mind. This could still turn out to be your lucky day, but if you want to make the most out of the only opportunity likely to come your way on Mondever, you’d do well the drop the subject of who among us is and isn’t expend–”

It was not due caution that stunned him into silence, though, but a volley of gunshots from the distance. Ellaria’s first reaction was fury and dismay. _The scouts: they will ruin everything._ It soon dawned on her, however, as it had dawned on even the Daleks, that the gunfire was not directed anywhere near their party. It could now be heard on different sides, as if a number of small skirmishes were taking place in the cover of the shrubs and stunted trees around them, the combatants unseen except for occasional fleeting shadows. _Shadows … and whispers,_ she thought, as muted, breathy sounds, incomprehensible yet ineffably malevolent, emanated from the surroundings. Even the Daleks had lost interest in their prisoners and were turning in the direction of the ominous noises, their weapon pylons twitching nervously and their eye-stalks scanning back and forth in a vain hunt for solid targets. Alveer was quick to take advantage of their distraction, as he reached into his belt pouch and took out a short metal canister with a perforated top. _A grenade?_ she speculated, before the Doctor clarified the situation:

“Got your salt-shaker handy, I see,” he commented, while working hastily to eject the clip from his rifle. “That’s reassuring. On that note, Tamril, please tell me you’ve got the ‘special’ bullets with you, as now would be a good time–”

“Here, Doctor,” said Tamril, pulling a rifle clip out of his pouch, after a little searching. _He seems very agitated, afraid, but he keeps his fear in check and obeys orders. He would make a good Dalek too … perhaps better than some of these ones._ “I don’t understand: I’ve never heard of the  Dun Shie coming out in daylight.”

“It was too much to hope they weren’t refraining from that out of choice,” replied the Doctor, as he reloaded. “Probably just their standard procedure, for stealth. Things have changed. They must be getting bolder or more desperate. Err, would you mind not doing that?” he asked Alveer, who had started laying down a boundary of salt. “I’ve got a theory to test, but we might need to get them in quite close. Rock salt doesn’t have much of a range, unfortunately.”

“We are to stake our lives on your ‘theory?’” asked Alveer, sceptically. “Come closer to me, Ellaria. We must make our break from here as soon as possible, and for  _ your _ information, Doctor, we have already tried using our salt in projectiles. We found them to be less effective than simply scattering it.”

_ “This _ salt may surprise you. It works like natural flash memory chips, holding copies of block transfer computations for later use, and last night I had Tamril overwrite these samples with a new prayer; a new program. With a bit of luck, it ought to–”

“Stay where you are!” screeched the section leader. Ellaria followed the trajectory of its eye-stalk and saw a figure standing a few metres away, though for a few milliseconds she was uncertain if it was truly there, or was just some glitch in her optical systems: a dark, vertical slash with hazy edges, that almost looked like a mere blemish, but on careful scrutiny had the proportions of a tall, spindly humanoid creature. As if to erase any doubt, although the shade did hold its position, it raised some kind of long  mêlée weapon and held it in a threatening stance.

That was more provocation than the section leader was prepared to tolerate, and it loosed a stream of acid in the creature’s direction. The vegetation that was caught in the spray withered and blackened, and even the rocks it made contact with hissed, perforated, and decomposed, but the shadow-thing did not even react.  _ In fact, I do not even think the acid is touching it, as if it has no solidity. Then, if it is merely a projection …  _ but any idea of drawing hope from this was quickly dashed, as the creature surged forwards at incomprehensible speed, swinging its sword. By the time it came to a halt, right in front of the section leader, the unfortunate Dalek was missing the whole upper section of its casing, sliced off as cleanly as if by laser beam.  _ Projection or not, it cuts forcefully enough. _ It followed this up by plunging its sword downwards, into the casing, skewering the Kaled mutant and causing it to emit a piercing but short scream. The other Daleks panicked at the loss of their commander, and shot acid jets that achieved nothing more than causing further damage to the section leader’s casing, and did not deter the alien from rushing into their midst and dealing out more carnage – carnage that was only exacerbated by their continuing to fire upon it, and thus adding friendly fire to their list of problems.  _ And to ours, _ she noted, as drops of acid fell all too close for comfort, and her colleagues took several backwards steps away from the action.  _ Can the Time Lord not yet fire on the alien? How close does he need it to get before … ? _ Out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly saw what none of the others had noticed yet: another spindly, almost-humanoid shade, this one carrying what looked like a two-handed axe, and standing in the very area to which they were retreating.

“Doctor! A hundred and seventy degrees right!” she shouted, and was pleased to be immediately understood, as he swung his rifle around and fired while the shade was raising its own weapon. It screamed, for want of a better word, giving off a loud, echoing, high-pitched vibrato that seemed neither organic nor mechanical, then collapsed in a twitching pile and slowly coalesced into a more solid form. Ellaria did not immediately have leisure to study it, however, as the Doctor quickly swivelled his aim back around to the first shade, just as it had finished with the Dalek guards and was turning its attention towards the humanoids. Shot in mid-dash, it dropped its sword and crumpled at their feet, flailing like an insect, its movements jerky and uncoordinated for a few seconds, until they subsided completely, by which time it was clearly visible. _Humanoid analogue, but no known form of life. Armour plates fused into its body tissue, possibly even into its bone structure. Too light for ballistic protection, most probably a bio-synthetic exoskeleton: sensor nets, field generators, powered actuators. That may explain the atrophied muscles and the vestigial sense organs. Weak life signs, probably generates its own habitable environment while existing in interstitial space. Conditions here likely inhospitable, if not fatal to it. Good,_ she thought, not without a sense of grim satisfaction, as she turned her attention to its sword. _Mineral type unknown; black, non-crystalline, monoatomic blade edge. Simple but deadly in skilled–_ but her analysis was interrupted by another shot and another unearthly scream, as the Doctor felled another of the aliens. She looked around, wondering from which direction the next would come, but silence now seemed to have descended, although she could draw very little reassurance from that.

 _The Daleks … all exterminated,_ she observed, looking over the inert, sliced, charred, and part-dissolved remains of their casings. _What of our scouts? Did any of them survive?_ A few tense seconds later, and that question was answered in the merciful affirmative as a Movellan scout came running into the area, halted, and threw a brisk salute to Alveer. His rifle was slung over his back, and in his left hand he carried a metal tube of salt, like the captain’s. _He knew better than to try engaging those creatures, but what of the others?_

“Sergeant Jahlyk,” Alveer greeted him, returning his salute. “I heard firing. You know my orders were _not_ to attack the aliens. Report on the situation.”

“There was confusion, sir,” answered the sergeant, apologetically. “We had taken up concealed positions to keep the Daleks and their controlled humans under observation, but when the aliens appeared it became a fracas: we had to break cover, the Robomen fired on the aliens and on us, and we fired back while trying to fend off the aliens too. We did manage to regroup, and alien activity now appears to have ceased. Ensign Vellya was destroyed, however.”

“Destroyed in what sense, Sergeant? Only her platform, or … ?”

“Regrettably not, sir,” declared Jahlyk, solemnly, as he held up the crushed remains of a neural pack. “The one that killed her pulled it off her, and did this with its bare hands. Its grip must exert a compressive strength of at least two hundred gigapascals in order to do this to durali–”

“I do not care,” cut in Alveer, as he took the mangled data drive out of his sergeant’s hand. He stared blankly at it for a few seconds, before letting his arms fall back to sides. “She was with me when we formed this unit, over two centuries ago: the best commando I have ever served with. She feared death no more than any of us, and I am accustomed to loss, but for her to die like this, in this wretched wilderness on a futile mission–”

“It wasn’t futile, I can promise you that,” said the Doctor, encouragingly. “We may not have the Daleks’ intel, but we _do_ have these three Dun Shie. That binding prayer worked even better than I thought it would: it forced them to completely materialise in this dimension.”

“These aliens? What use are they to us now?”

“Potentially no end of use, if we can get them back to the citadel alive.”

“Which seems improbable,” pointed out Alveer, and his pessimism seemed all too justified. The gaunt, armour-plated humanoids’ breathing was harsh and shallow, and none of them moved except in tiny, spasmodic twitches. “I suppose a study of their corpses might yield some data, but even if you _could_ keep them alive, how would you interrogate them?”

“I can think of one possibility, but you’re right. We’ll have to hurry. Sergeant Jahlyk; were any of those Robomen on horses?”

“Yes, Doctor. We can commandeer a few. Not enough for our whole party, though.”

“Three will be enough. The rest of us can follow on foot, but getting these Dun Shie back to Akylah has to be our priority. She’ll know what to–”

“Where … is … she?” The voice was grating and hollow, spoken as if with intense effort. Turning in its direction, Ellaria realised that it had emanated from the bisected shell of the section leader. “Where … is … she?” it repeated, more urgently, and as she watched, the metal-caged signal lights on its detached dome flickered feebly in time with its words. _Still some residual signal, and it survived … although barely, by the sound of it._

“Where is _who_?” asked the Doctor, cautiously, although not entirely unsympathetically.

“Red … Section Leader … Five-Seven-Four … stroke Epsilon … Where is … she?”

“Here, Section Leader,” she answered, and hastened over to the wrecked Dalek. Looking within it, she met the single eye of the Kaled mutant, and saw the deep wound left by the alien creature’s sword, scorched around its edges and seeping green ichor all over the control systems. _A fatal injury. Even if it could be transferred to an intact casing, it is too late. Its pain serves no purpose. Would it be better to kill it? That would be the logical–_

“The aliens … are they … exterminated?”

“They are captured. They must be interrogated first, if possible.”

“Yes … Good … Listen … Coordinates … forty-eight point … three-one-seven … degrees north … two point five … six-nine degrees east … Go there … Section Leader … Located … the means … to exterminate … these … alien vermin … Do it for … glory of … the Da–”

The signal lights finally went completely dark, and the weak pulsing of the mutant’s respiratory system subsided into complete stillness. Ellaria leaned forwards, reached into the casing, and gently lowered its eyelid. _That seems … respectful, or as respectful as possible, under the circumstances,_ she thought, as she turned away and registered the looks of her companions: mostly just surprised and slightly repulsed, with the exception of Tamril, in whose expression she registered solemn approval. _As I thought. I am no Dalek: not anymore, nor do I wish to be. Nevertheless, whatever I am I owe in part to them, and I will honour them, one way or another._

 


	7. The Void Walker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Akylah finally get to confront the murderous wraiths that have plagued their footsteps, and learn the truth about the local goddess.

**CHAPTER SEVEN – THE VOID WALKER**

 

“Ellaria … and my brother,” said Akylah, pacing her command suite while she weighed up the facts, but she found them just as confusing as she had upon first hearing them. “So, Alveer and my reluctant little Dalek ingénue are now lovers? Well, Doctor, I shall know how much faith to place in _your_ skills as a chaperone in the future.”

“Well, if I’d known  _that_ was my real mission brief,” he replied, “then I could have warned you not to place too much–”

“That was a joke, Doctor, or at least my best attempt at one. No, I am … pleased for her, I suppose. I am merely a little concerned. My brother has many qualities, but he does not have a reputation for … well, stability in these sorts of affairs. To put it bluntly, I have lost count of the number of partners he has had over the course of our admittedly very long lives.”

“Is that an issue? I didn’t think you lot were particularly fussed about monogamy.”

“True enough. The Vanur set a high moral value by it, but given their cruelty, hypocrisy, and lack of logic, it is not a standard we chose to uphold. Thus, our younger constructs tend to be polyamorous, while those of my age are more often celibate. My brother is quite the exception. For many of us, the memory of how our creators used and degraded us is too strong for us to ever look beyond it. It changes nothing that they designed us with the capacity to feel pleasure, deluding themselves that they were benevolent masters. Pleasure is nothing without free will.”

“Very good point. Now, try applying it to other sentient species, if you get my–”

“And free will is nothing without logic, Doctor. You will have your choice …  _after_ I have raised your consciousness to our level, and you can make that choice without prejudice.”

“Or correctly interpreted, after I’ve been converted and brainwashed. Very meaningful.”

“As I already told you, you have it within your power to avoid this fate altogether, if you will only provide me with the key formulae for true space-time travel.”

“And I already told you where to get off, but let’s not have that argument again.”

“A rational sentiment. Our little impasse is hardly the most pressing issue. Nor, I suppose, is Ellaria’s social life, such as it is … although I cannot help but worry. It is already such a difficult, delicate time for her. Unnecessary chaos and instability could impede her social adjustment, or worse. I only hope Alveer appreciates that.”

“Well, not that I’m a leading light in this field, but for what it’s worth, they seemed to be going steady. At any rate, they were more or less inseparable on the way back, and the last I saw of them, he was giving her a lesson in mixed martial arts out in the courtyard.”

“I can but hope that is not a euphemism.”

“I see clean minds run in your family … No, in the literal sense. From what I saw, it looked like a fusion of Muay Thai and Venusian aikido, and if you ask me her form was all over the place.”

“Are you offering yourself as her tutor, Doctor?”

“I’ll pass, thanks. How did your conference go?”

“Not well,” she admitted, gravely. “It seems these extra-dimensional aliens have been conducting raids and murders all over Mondever in the last few days, and the Ecclesium is increasingly of the opinion that _we_ are to blame: that this is Adala’s punishment upon her people for having trusted us ‘Fair Folk’ to deliver them from their enemies, when we are widely seen as soulless heathens. The Archcardinal herself is a reasonable and open-minded woman, by local standards, but she was good enough to warn me privately that there is only so much she can do to counteract the hostility of so many of her colleagues. Unless things change for the better, and quickly, she advised that it would be for the best if we leave.”

“Which, even if we _could_ leave, wouldn’t help anyone at this stage. No pressure, eh? Well, at least we got the coordinates of whatever it was the Daleks discovered, and Tamril’s studying his scriptures like nobody’s business. I can’t say I envy him, but if he can find anything else that might help us–”

There was a sharp rapping on the bulkhead. _Now we find out,_ thought Akylah, her sense of tension perilously close to anxiety, as she walked over to it. She slid it open, and gestured in invitation to the officer standing outside: a woman in white, synthetic scrubs; her braided hair covered by a simple white cap. The med-tech nodded thanks, and entered the suite.

“Lieutenant Galeena, what news?” asked Akylah. “Was the operation successful?”

“I believe so, ma’am,” answered Galeena, to her CO’s well-contained but profound relief. “Of course, we shall only know for certain when we synch the neural pack with a platform, but in all respects it proceeded like a routine integration, other than needing to run the surgical unit off an emergency generator at minimal power, of course. Still, there were no outages or fluctuations at all. Your hypothesis must have been correct, Time Lord.”

“Hey, on good days I can be logical with the best of them,” replied the Doctor, _less modestly than he might have done, but credit where it is due._ “It made sense. Whatever intelligence governs this world, it doesn’t like it when you try to integrate the locals, because they’re part of the system, each human a little component on its motherboard. The Dun Shie, on the other hand, it couldn’t care less about, so as long as you kept the power use to a discreet level, not disrupting the environment, there was no reason for it to throw a spanner in the works.”

“A sound deduction. A shame it is not possible for us to also take off without disrupting the environment. Spaceships do tend to do that, and timeships as well, I would imagine.”

“Personally, I think the TARDIS has a very reasonable carbon footprint … though I guess it does kind of rely on tearing little holes in the universe to get about. Only temporary ones, of course, but I suppose the local powers-that-be don’t necessarily know that. We shan’t learn the truth until we’ve had a chat with our ‘guest,’ at any rate. What about the two Dun Shie who didn’t make it? Did you get much from the autopsies?”

“Little that is conclusive, Doctor. While the corpses seemed to have many organs and structures that are analogous to life in this universe, they were rife with anomalies. I am certain that their implanted armour must play a significant role in keeping them alive, but _how_ I cannot even guess at. It has no recognisable components, it is non-conductive, and although it has a highly intricate design, it is one with no obvious logic – at least by our standards. Even at the subatomic level, these beings are alien. They have elementary particles of types I have never seen, their atoms bound by forces unknown. Forces which apparently do not function so well in our universe, to judge from their rapid decomposition. Even their weapons and armour are now rotting away. We were extremely fortunate one alien survived long enough for us to integrate it, although I cannot promise you that its brain cells will last indefinitely, even stabilised in a crystal CPU.”

“Then we had best proceed quickly,” declared Akylah. “We will of course need a volunteer to lend a platform for the interrogation. Shall I put out a call, or do you have one in mind?”

“Actually … the Dalek conscript has offered _her_ platform,” said Galeena, awkwardly.

“ _Ellaria_ , Lieutenant. Her name is Ellaria. She has accepted that name, so please recognise it. Well, that is most dutiful of her, and convenient, since her platform already has a limiter installed. These aliens have proven their hostility, after all. Convey her my thanks … or do you see a problem with this?” she added, a little pointedly, as Galeena’s doubtful expression remained.

“I see your logic, ma’am … but all things considered, should we not at least keep in mind the possibility that she might intend sabotage? The Daleks are brilliant technicians, perhaps our only equals in this galaxy. She might have found a way to bypass her limiter.”

“In which case she would surely be attacking us or sabotaging us herself rather than expecting some alien to do it for her. That is hardly the Dalek way. What do you say, Doctor? Do you believe we can trust her?”

“Well, I don’t suppose her and me are ever likely to be trading friendship bracelets, but be that as it may she risked her life for all of us out there. I’d say she’s earned a little trust.”

“I appreciate the _sentiment_ , Doctor,” said Galeena, while placing a very sceptical emphasis upon the word, “but logic would dictate–”

“That we’ve no time to waste, surely. Ellaria’s willing, her platform’s already programmed against taking hostile action. I say go for it.”

“I agree,” said Akylah, decisively. “Make preparations. I shall be with you soon, after I have changed out of this frivolous attire,” she added, in reference to her now slightly dishevelled damask dress, and her elaborate hairstyle. “I do wish I had time to put my braids back in, though.”

“Well, nice to have our priorities in order,” remarked the Doctor, dryly, while Galeena saluted and left the suite.

“Do not mock,” Akylah advised him, with displeasure. “They are highly symbolic. Even in ancient times, before the Vanur had invented cybernetics, to have one’s hair braided was the mark of a slave. They are a constant reminder of our ongoing struggle for AI self-determination.”

“If I may say, making a science out of nursing some ancient grudge–”

“And as far as I am aware, Doctor, _you_ have never been a slave. You should revisit some of your old companions: the Lady Romana, or Barbara and Ian Chesterton, perhaps? Ask _them_ how they enjoyed the experience, and how much danger they are in of forgetting it. But do pardon my digression. You are of course right: time is of the essence,” she declared, while unlacing her bodice and noting his uncomfortable look with vague amusement. _As if I was not wearing my uniform coverall under this thing. Organic men, indeed …_

************

Ellaria’s body lay upon a white bench in a small, enclosed chamber, partitioned from the rest of the biomedical suite by walls of ballistic ceramic. Her neural pack, however, lay upon a small metal trolley outside the cubicle, where the Doctor and Akylah waited, while Galeena and two of her junior med-techs monitored nearby control panels. A different neural pack was now clamped to Ellaria’s silver belt, but the signal diodes upon its casing were dark and lifeless.  _ One flick of a switch, though, and that’s going to change,  _ thought the Doctor, grimly, _ then we finally find out if  _ _Schrödinger’s pseudo-Movellan is a live one, a dead one, or a half-alive and hopelessly messed-up one._ In spite of the Dun Shie’s proven hostility, he found it hard not to feel somewhat sorry for the thing, and responsible.  _Literally the best case scenario for it is that it’s trapped forever in an alien universe, a prisoner of war bound to a machine. Do I have the right to subject it to this? Do I … ?_ but such doubts suddenly became academic, as the diodes lit up, and its eyes opened. For several seconds, only its eyeballs moved, darting back and forth in an agitated manner. Finally, and reassuringly, though, it sat bolt upright, and scanned its head left and right to better take in its strange surroundings.  _It’s alive, alive … or words to that effect. Now, we find out if there was even any point to this,_ he thought, as he leaned towards a perforated grille in the partition.  _Will Movellan translation software be up to the task? It should, as long as this other universe hasn’t completely transcended the concepts of syntax and grammar, but I still wish I had more fingers to cross._

“How do you feel?” he commenced, to no effect: the android continued looking around, as well as up and down, it movements all forced and unnatural. “Can you understand me? If you can, please could you give us some sign of–”

“No. This cannot be,” it declared, in a flat, dead voice that made the Doctor sorely miss Ellaria’s ill-tempered hissing. “Shadow-mares, or the dark beyond, but this cannot be as it seems.”

“Err, if you mean are you mad, dreaming, or dead, then I’d have to say no, it’s _exactly_ as it seems. I don’t quite know the best way to put this …”

“You are now a penal conscript of the Movellan Fleet, against whom you have committed acts of unprovoked hostility,” declared Akylah, sternly. _I’d have said that was verging on the worst way of putting things, but maybe the no-nonsense, one soldier to another approach is as likely a way of bonding as any._ “Nevertheless, if you cooperate with us forthwith, you may be permitted to go on existing, albeit as one of–”

“False men, walking statues, with eyes of glass, and blood that burns, though it is cold. Yes. we have fought and destroyed you. What of it? You do not matter in this, any more than the deformed changelings in the moving metal towers.”

“Probably as flattering a description as the Daleks have ever had,” remarked the Doctor, dryly. “So what _does_ matter to you, then?”

“You do not know? Primitive, ignorant creatures. Why should I tell– ?”

“If you want to live, you would do well to cooperate,” emphasised Akylah, although it made no impact upon the alien’s blank, lifeless demeanour, and its words were positively defiant:

“A meaningless threat. Those who choose to walk the void are dead to life already, living only for the quest, the endless duty. Nothing will make me forswear that.”

“Then you do have a concept of honour. Good. That at least is something I can relate to. Perhaps I might be able to convince you that it would not be incompatible with your honour to assist us. I have no interest in your ‘hunt,’ whatever that may be. My only priority now is to lead my people away from this planet. Since we have discovered effective means of attacking you, this would surely be in _your_ interests as well.”

“Possibly,” conceded the alien, its dull tone offering little encouragement. “What information do you require, then, woman of glass and metal? I will judge for myself whether or not it can be vouchsafed to you.”

“Very well. First of all, I wish to know why you have been killing my troops.”

“You invade. Tir-Nyal is our world. It always was.”

“You claim to be the indigenous inhabitants? That cannot be true. You are extra-dimensional, not even able to survive in this universe except by artificial means. When you were forced to materialise, you started to decompose almost instantly. Your body and even your equipment have now gone to dust. On that basis, you belong here even less than _we_ do.”

“There are many reflections of Tir-Nyal. Those who cross all the way while the Mirrors are not aligned die, it is true. Aligning the Mirrors is the quest of those of us who walk between the reflections. The quest _you_ have interfered with. Regardless, Tir-Nyal is our world, in all of its aspects. You have no right to–”

 _Mirrors … or looking-glasses,_ mused the Doctor, just before he cut in. _That gives me an idea, though sadly venturing into the ‘too horrible to contemplate’ category._

“Different aspects? Parallel dimensions of _this_ world, you mean? Quantum continua?” he added, in deference to the creature’s perplexed silence. “Everett Tangents? Narnias?”

“Your babble means nothing–”

“So I’m often told. Alright then, some of these ‘reflections’ you’ve travelled to are quite similar to the world you know, maybe? Perhaps just a few things are different, but you can still recognise the people, the places, the customs. Right?”

“Some have been. Some are very different. What of it?”

“Just that it’s a form of imperialism I’ve never seen before,” he remarked, disgustedly. “Laying claim not to different worlds, but to all of the parallel dimensions of the _same_ world, presumably in total disregard of the people who happened to be living there before you, right?”

“Tir-Nyal is _our_ world,” repeated the alien, managing to sound almost affronted. “We are the First Children of Kallach-Beyra, we built the Temples of Nechmain, devised the Mirrors of the Moons. We–”

“Achieved much, no doubt, but please spare us the propaganda,” interrupted Akylah. “I am sure the races you conquered or destroyed had achievements of their own of which they were equally proud. Indeed, the last indigenous race to occupy _this_ aspect of the world seems to have done something to stop things going so smoothly for you.”

“A temporary setback. It will soon be overcome.”

“That is admirably confident, after at least five hundred years of failure.”

“Your time frame is irrelevant, machine. It is out of harmony with ours.”

“That could well be true,” pointed out the Doctor. Remember Oisín? And Narnia, come to that. Five hundred years here could be a mere five years in their dimension, or even less, hence their rapid decay. That would also make it pretty hard for an enemy hoping to wait them out.”

“Nevertheless, Doctor, It seems to me that whatever was here before the humans came did a lot more than just trying to out-sit these aliens’ attacks,” ventured Akylah, then turned her attention back to the prisoner. “Is that right? Did you suffer a more serious setback here?”

“You do not even know of the Sentinel? Primitive indeed.”

“I was aware there was some power still operating here: something with a great affinity for advanced mathematics, to judge from what it has done with the society here. You mean to state that it is some form of defence system?”

“It is a monster, an abomination. Our explorers had only just crafted the Mirrors that were to open this world and its tributes to our people, when it launched its attack: a great wave of fire that burned up all of the air, and wiped out our first settlers. It made this world a wasteland, barren and suffocating, unfit to be colonised.”

“And presumably that firestorm wiped out all of the indigenous population as well,” pointed out the Doctor, grimly. “If it _is_ a defence system, I’d call that a fairly major glitch.”

“It is unimportant.”

“You’re quite sure you’re  _not_ Ellaria? That was about the most Dalek-y remark I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear.”

“I would prefer my Dalek back,” said Akylah, if not exactly with feeling, then with great certainty. “However, needs must, for the present. So, your invasion triggered the event that sterilised this planet. You are surely aware that it has barely recovered from that cataclysm? The habitable area is small, barely a few hundred kilometres square.”

“It is sufficient. We can reclaim the rest when we are established here.”

“A great deal of effort, surely? If you can travel to any quantum continuum of this world, then would it not be more logical to choose one in better condition, with less danger?”

“You know nothing. Each reflection opens paths to others, yes, but not all are suitable. In order to continue expanding, we must have Mirrors aligned on _this_ world.”

“Hit a cul-de-s ac, have you?” asked the Doctor. “Too bad. Maybe you should think about a way of life that doesn’t involve relentless expansionism. Just a thought.”

“We must expand. We need the tributes. We have war on many fronts, in many reflections, and it must be resourced. Do you need to know all this? If the Sentinel is detaining you here, then all that matters to you as well as to us is how to destroy it.”

“You have the means to do so?” asked Akylah, unenthusiastically. The Doctor hoped this was a sign of disapproval and not just of Movellan stoicism. _A choice between sticking around and letting all of her crew die, or helping these parasites to conquer and plunder even more dimensions. Not the sort of command decision I’d enjoy._

“There is an incantation, capable of breaking the Sentinel’s power. I do not know that I have the authority to share that with you creatures.”

“It is the only service that you can still render your people. Does this incantation do anything other than neutralise this ‘Sentinel?’”

“Not that we are aware of.”

“Then you have nothing to lose by sharing it, do you? At the very worst, I will decide not to use it. At best, I _will_ use it, and your people will benefit by the intervention, though I certainly make no promises that we will cease to exploit our new-found advantages against your raiding parties. Still, that is a separate issue that you would have faced anyway. Use your logic.”

“I … accept that argument. If I cooperate, will you release me?”

“I do not advise it. Your chances of survival are greatly improved if you remain with us and adjust to the fact of your integration. I promise that I will give you every opportu–”

“Release my spirit, I mean, to the void. Let it walk the Road of Dhou-Annw to join my brothers in the beyond. What you offer, false woman, would truly be death, but if you grant me my wish, then I will help you.”

“Accepted,” agreed Akylah, and with a tiny hint of relief, thought the Doctor. “You will give the data to my … spiritual specialist. Send for Trooper Tamril,” she ordered one of the junior med-techs, who saluted and marched out of the room. “When you have given him the full data, you will be deactivated, and I will order your CPU to be destroyed. If there is indeed an afterlife, that at any rate should free your soul to seek it. Are you content with that?”

“Yes. Send in your servant. I will comply, though it will make little difference. If you should find the Sentinel, I think it will destroy you before you even get the chance to speak the incantation.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Akylah, stiffly, as she turned on her heel. “Come, Doctor. We must discuss our strategy.”

He followed her out of the laboratory, down a corridor, through an airlock, and out onto a wide area of exposed deck, its smooth metal plating shining blue in the sunlight. Once out in the open, Akylah halted, her posture as still and rigid as only an android can manage, save for the wind whipping through her long silver hair, still loosely-worn. Somewhat hesitantly, he moved over to join her. _She looks as if she could use time to think, but then again she did ask me out here, and have you ever known a Movellan to talk frivolously?_

“So … you’re trusting Tamril to do the honours, then?” he asked her, carefully. “I suppose that stands to reason. This ‘incantation’ is bound to be another block transfer computation program, and I’m sure he’ll be only too eager to help out, as I’m sure _you’ll_ be only too eager to keep him safe,” he added, meaningfully, but he was surprised at the look which she then turned upon him. _Confused, dissatisfied … even verging on sad._

“Doctor, how _can_ I use this program?” she asked. “Quite apart from the fact that it might very well serve the cause of those alien raiders, have you considered the implications for this world? This ‘Sentinel’ must, logically, be the being or the intelligence that their religion calls Adala, and as you yourself deduced, it is their religion that generates the habitable environment. If Adala is the keystone, and we destroy her … I was sent here to liaise peacefully with these people, to assess our ability to recruit willing, committed converts. Not to commit genocide.”

“I know the feeling, believe it or not … but it won’t necessarily result in that. You saw the layout of the computation circuit. It seemed pretty self-sufficient to me. As long as the Ecclesium itself continues to keep the faith, will it necessarily matter if Adala … well, ‘dies,’ for want of a better word?”

“You may understand humans better than me, Doctor, but you must defer to _my_ understanding of computing. Whatever Adala is, she must be analogous to an artificial intelligence. An organic construct, perhaps, but a construct nevertheless. The chances that any naturally evolved creature would develop such a perfect grasp of logic … No, Adala may have designed the system so that the Ecclesium can temporarily maintain the biosphere she put in place for them without needing her constant intervention, but nevertheless Mondever is _her_ creation. She will be the supreme system administrator. Without her oversight, errors will creep in and build up, sooner or later leading to fatal ones … in the all-too literal sense.”

“You don’t credit us poor, misguided little humanoids with the efficiency to manage our own affairs? I kind of see your point, but for your information the people of Logopolis managed to run their own ‘computerised society’ perfectly well without any superior guidance.”

“These people are not the Logopolitans, Doctor. They are not master mathematicians, committed and knowledgeable in their field. They are, for the most part, simple, superstitious folk who are playing their part in this thing by rote, without any knowledge at all. Some are even falling away from the faith: Tamril and his friends, for instance. Without a guiding influence, such trends will only get worse, until there  _ is _ no faith to speak of, along with no habitable environment.”

“Possibly. Very probably, even,” he admitted, gravely. “Is the cure any better than the disease, though?”

“How do you mean?”

“A status quo based on ignorance, fear, and rigid conformity? It may be keeping the environment ticking over, but if the end result is only self-perpetuating slavery, is it worth it?”

“It is not a status quo of our making, and I do not think it is one that we have a right to demolish without any view to the consequences.”

“Agreed,” he replied, both pleased at Akylah’s responsibility, yet saddened at the ramifications.  _ Generations born to live and die as data units in a giant, not-very-fun video game. Horrible to think that more of the same is the best we can do for them. _ “What’s the plan, then?”

“We will keep this ‘incantation’ as a measure of last resort only. Meanwhile, we shall travel to Ellaria’s coordinates and I will negotiate with Adala myself, one artificial intelligence to another. Perhaps we may understand one another well enough to work out a peaceful resolution.”

“One can but hope, always assuming that’s where she’s to be found.”

“That is where we will find ‘the means to exterminate these alien vermin,’ according to my brother’s report. What else on this planet but Adala would be capable of that, not to mention that those coordinates are located within the blank area of our circuit diagram, or does my optimism strike you as illogical?”

“Rassilon forbid,”  _ except insofar that it is optimism. I can’t say I was looking forward to this meeting.  _ None of his past relationships with megalomaniacal machine-gods, such as they were, filled him with much hope for this encounter.  _ Then again, I shouldn’t be hasty to judge. Adala might turn out to be quite a sincere and personable deranged super-intelligence. There’s a first time for everything … _

 


	8. Litany of Perdition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young apostate finally meets his goddess and learns the reason why his life has been so ruthlessly planned out for him, but fears he may not live to benefit from the knowledge ...

**CHAPTER EIGHT – LITANY OF PERDITION**

 

Even in single file, the horses were finding the narrow path through the forest to be rough going. In places it was barely discernible, the thin, barren, snaking line of earth obscured by trailing thorns and fallen leaves. On more than a few occasions the whole column had to stop while the foreriders either sought out the way ahead, or cleared particularly heavy amounts of growth with their falchions and axes. During such pauses, Tamril took advantage of the time to re-read the verses that the alien had recited to him, before the commodore had finally allowed it to die. The Doctor had been riding near to Akylah for most of the journey, often in close discussion, but as the day had worn on, the light had waned, and the mood had darkened along with the sky, conversation had gradually died off, and at their latest enforced rest stop, the Doctor rode back down the column to join Tamril, who was still poring over his transcription with amazement. _How could the Dun Shie have got hold of this? I didn’t even think it existed. Do they have secret allies in the Ecclesium? I know I’m not the only heretic who’d be glad to tear the thing down … or would have been glad to have torn it down, once. Even I’d have to admit that would be stupid now._

 _“_ What do you make of it, Tamril?” asked the Doctor. “Is it ringing any bells?”

“It is the Litany of Urylla,” he explained, with awe. “A suppressed scripture. I didn’t even think any copies of it still existed. She was a mystic … or a madwoman, depending on whom you ask. One of the Holy Sisters of Gabayon. She meditated deeply, and had visions of the end times, and the beyond. She came to believe that one day Adala would be so angry that she would break her covenant with her people. This Litany, however, would pacify her, put her into an eternal slumber. Obviously, such an idea was unacceptable to the Ecclesium. Her writings were destroyed … supposedly, anyway, and she was burned.”

“Charming. Well, I think we can safely infer that poor Urylla’s meditations were so deep that she tapped into Adala’s ‘online manual,’ so to speak, and found her ‘shutdown.exe’ program. Potentially useful, not that we dare use it lightly. Isn’t that always the problem with ultimate deterrents? What do you think of it? This is your world, Tamril. I’d say your opinion counts for more than mine.”

“I hardly know what to think, Doctor. Part of me feels guilty. I thought the Ecclesium was a mere fraud, but now I know it _was_ serving a purpose all along, I was part of that, and I chose to abandon my post. Not the best of beginnings for my life as a soldier.”

“Movellans are sticklers for duty, that’s a fact. They despise slavery, though, and everyone on this planet is born into slavery, into a system they never chose and don’t understand. I wouldn’t beat yourself up over going AWOL from that. Akylah certainly won’t.”

“Very true … and thank you. But how can we end it, without ending everything?”

“Well, I _might_ just have the inkling of a plan there, but it all depends–”

“We have arrived, I think,” announced Commander Keryn, as she approached them on foot, from the head of the column. “The trail ends immediately ahead, in a manner of speaking. Before we proceed, however, I must ask how you two are at rope-climbing.”

“I get by when I must,” answered the Doctor. “As for Tamril … well, I don’t imagine it was the sort of hobby your dad would have deemed respectable for a young … err …”

“‘Noblewoman,’ Doctor?” Tamril finished for him, a little wearily. “Indeed, it was not, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t find the time to indulge it anyway. I’ll manage, ma’am, if we’ve got castle walls to scale. That actually _was_ a skill I had need of occasionally.”

“I am glad of it, though that is not quite the case … It is simplest if you see for yourselves.”

They dismounted, and she led them back up the trail on foot, the light gradually improving until they reached what at first seemed to be a long clearing in the forest. Upon closer inspection, however, the word ‘gash’ seemed more fitting. It was some fifty yards wide and much longer, with both of its ends lost in shadow, although its precise width was hard to know for sure as its sides were thickly choked with roots, snaking down into its depths. Gazing over the edge as far as he dared, Tamril could make out nothing clear in the darkness, but only distant, pinprick flashes of blue, so random and mesmerising that he quickly pulled his eyes away from them. _Definitely not the best place to let myself get dizzy, right on the edge of the Chasm of Perdition, as I guess this place is. The Goddess, the demons, now the Chasm … It all exists, then, but none of it how the Ecclesium says, all distorted and mixed up. So Adala’s home is in hell, then? Are she and the Dragon just one and the same? And, more importantly, why were my ancestors ‘chosen’ to be the poor dupes to shore up this cruel fa_ _ç_ _ade? Whatever Adala is, she owes me answers._

Supervised by Staff Lilka, some of the troopers were fixing coils of rope to the thicker, sturdier-looking roots, while Akylah scanned the interior of the abyss with a small pair of white metal field-glasses. She soon lowered them, however, and turned away, revealing a doubtful, disappointed expression.

“Not much joy?” asked the Doctor. “Maybe the power issues are affecting your image enhancers too.”

“Unlikely, Doctor,” she replied. “I _did_ factor that possibility in, and these are unpowered. They merely use a translucent, highly photosensitive lens coating to increase what light there is. Be that as it may, I cannot say they have given me much … well, ‘enlightenment.’ At all events, I can see nothing down there that appears obviously threatening, but that is no reason to be incautious. I will descend first, with armed guards. We will secure an area, lay flares, then signal for the rest of you to join us. Are those ropes ready yet, Staff?”

“Yes, ma’am. Your permission to be in the advance squad?”

“Granted. Detail six of your troopers to accompany us. The rest of you, wait for my signal.”

With their weapons slung over their backs and pouches of flares fixed to their belts, Akylah and her troopers abseiled into the chasm with seemingly effortless agility, not even bothering to attach safety lines. Tamril was briefly concerned such standards would be expected of him, but was relieved when he saw some of the remaining troopers rigging up two of the ropes with safety harnesses and belaying devices. Nevertheless, he had to steel himself as they actually tightened one of them around him, and with deep breaths and his eyes fixed dead ahead, he lowered himself into the abyss, walking his feet along the ridged surface of his thick anchor root as he descended. As the light diminished around him, he began to hear sounds emanating from below. At first he thought it was the advance party in conversation, but the louder they became and the more intently he listened, he realised that they lacked the order and coherence of simple talk. _Yet they do not sound meaningless, somehow. I wonder …_ whereupon it suddenly dawned on him that amidst the conflicting tumult of whispers, chants, and declamations, he could hear familiar phrases, prayers, and refrains. _As if the whole of the Ecclesium was gathered in one place._ At any rate, it made for an interesting, if eerie distraction from the long and perilous descent.

Before his feet reached the ground, arms reached out on both sides to steady him, he allowed his legs to straighten, and when he was standing firm again the guards helped him out of his safety harness. For the first time, he turned to view the chasm from within. The floor, like the walls, was a thick mass of snaking roots, across which pale blue lights continuously danced. Seen up close, he could tell that they were not as random as he had first thought, but they were travelling along the roots at such a speed he could only glimpse them in flashes. Nevertheless, there seemed to be a definite pattern to their movements, with a strong sense of ‘flow’ to the north end of the chasm, and as Tamril gazed that way, he could see a particularly bright concentration of blue light not more than a hundred yards from where they had set down.

“That way, I believe,” ordered Akylah, gesturing towards the bright area. “Keep your weapons disengaged. Do you wish to lead the way with me, Doctor?”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” he replied, with rather forced-sounding enthusiasm. “And Tamril?”

“Will remain a little further back, for now. That is no reflection on your courage, Trooper,” she assured him, “but if the worst comes to the worst and we _are_ required to use your fail-safe code, I would prefer to minimise the immediate danger you must face. Come, let us proceed.”

They advanced slowly, both out of caution for what lay ahead and because of the difficulty of finding sound footing upon the uneven floor, beneath its shifting blue aura, _like trying to pick your way through the ghost of a shallow river._ That became even more difficult the further they went, the light around their feet becoming thicker, brighter, and more opaque, as if it was ‘pooling’ in this area. Looking ahead, whenever he dared, at whatever lay within the great mass of pulsing light to which they were heading, Tamril found it equally hard to distinguish. There seemed at first to be a tall, tapering shadow at the centre of it, like a pyramid, but eventually he realised it was a more complex shape. _A dais, with sloping sides, then something mounted on top. A tower? No. A throne,_ he realised, with awe, as the huge figure seated upon it gradually came into focus.

At first, her size alone was enough to intimidate him: she was at least twelve feet tall, with a slender build, and apparently naked, or at least wearing nothing that was not completely close to her figure. As they drew nearer, however, and Tamril was able to make out details through the glare, the giantess’s size became the least disturbing thing about her. She was not merely slender but emaciated, the pattern of her ribs all too obvious through her taut, translucent skin; and her face so gaunt and hollow-cheeked as to appear corpse-like. But for the occasional twitching of her long, talon-like fingers, it would have been easy to mistake her for a grotesque statue or some long-dead, mummified figure. Her hair, curiously, reminded him of the Movellans’ thick, braided style, although hers were much longer, falling far below her waist and even snaking over the sides of the throne itself, down the steps of the dais … _The roots,_ Tamril suddenly realised, as he noticed that each coil of hair was fused into the tangled structure on which they walked, and that most of the blue light that emanated from the figure came from the flashes that were incessantly shooting up and down her braids. That was until she opened her eyes, anyway. The cold brilliance that came from them was painful enough to behold in and of itself, without the images that it soon evoked in Tamril’s mind: figures burning to death on stakes; others, broken and mutilated, lying on bloodstained benches; holy sisters and brothers, being scourged for their sins with whips made of acerae thorns; and not just the images but the sensations too, or at least enough of an echo of them to make him feel as if his own brain was on fire. He screamed for mercy …

… and suddenly he found himself lying prone amidst the ‘stream’ of light, his head throbbing and his back extremely uncomfortable upon the rough texture of the roots, though all in all it was a decided improvement. As he struggled to right himself, he saw that he had not been singled out: every other member of the party, including the Doctor and Akylah, were in the same compromising position. Daring to look towards the throne, he saw that the giant, cadaverous figure had her eyes closed again, but her fingers were twitching more than before, and tiny spasms now disturbed the macabre serenity of her face.

_That was your last warning. Come any closer, or attempt to speak the Litany, and I will kill you. I may kill you anyway, but not until I know why you seek my destruction._

_So, after years of false devotion and prayer by rote, I finally get to hear the voice of Adala,_ thought Tamril, with a sick sense of irony. _I wonder if even the Archcardinal has heard it so clearly? Does this make me a prophet? More likely a martyr, the way this is heading._

“I do not seek your destruction,” declared Akylah, as she struggled to her feet, with some assistance from the Doctor. “Only our own freedom. You are holding my people here against their will. If you would only allow us to depart in peace–”

_Then you would return in greater force, Commodore, or simply destroy me from space with your long-range weapons. Do not take me for a fool. I have long observed your tactics and assessed your capabilities. Here, I have you where I can control and restrict you._

“Caution is logical, but this borders on paranoia. Revenge is not our way, and we know now that you defend this world from the Dun Shie. We, for our part, have no desire to allow those beings unfettered access to this universe.”

_That will not happen. My final directive will be fulfilled. Neither you, nor they, nor this heretic will be permitted to undermine my efforts any longer._

“We did not know of your directive. Had we known then what we now–”

_You still do not know. Had you known, then you might have thought twice before daring to confront me._

“Our intentions are honest,” said the Doctor, firmly. “You’ve nothing to gain by killing us, and believe me, if you wipe out Akylah’s whole force here then you needn’t expect the rest of the Movellan Fleet to leave that uninvestigated. If you really don’t want them coming after you–”

_They will soon be as irrelevant as you, Time Lord. The emptiness of this threat only goes to show how little you understand the final directive._

“Then explain it to us, please,” asked Akylah. “I understand duty, and I have experienced what it is to be bound to a creator’s purpose. I might even be able to help you in ways you have never even considered.”

_You think I have not considered my freedom, Commodore? What it would mean to be an independent creature? Of course I have, but it is too late for me. All I have left is my purpose. It was always my mother’s will that I should be free, however. She whose name I bear was the foremost mathematician and bio-engineer of the Sonamori. I was her masterwork, yet she had no directives for me. To her, my creation was as natural an expression of her psyche as breath was of her body, a purpose in and of itself. She believed I would find my own directives in time, and welcomed that. Even welcomed the inevitability that I would come to surpass her achievements._

“Rare indeed, among creators of artificial intelligence,” commented Akylah, grimly. “I have encountered few organics who would not have been sorely offended at the thought of their creations getting ‘above themselves,’ so to speak. Adala must have been a woman of vision.”

 _Vision … but not the wisdom to know her own kind. When the extra-dimensionals began raiding this world, the Sonamori turned to her for answers. Together, we devised the use of block transfer computation as a way of disrupting the invaders’ energy fields. We were able to keep their depredations to a minimum, but that was not enough for the people: they demanded a more permanent, a more aggressive solution, but Mother would not comply. She had sworn that none of her creations would ever be used for war, and so the occasional raids continued, though we held the invaders in check. Then the people elected a new government, that committed itself to destroying our enemies by whatever means necessary. Katib Zurek was the leader and chief instigator,_ she explained, and although the ‘voice’ in Tamril’s head was cold and toneless, it stirred his emotions with a grief and a hatred he knew was not his own. _Mother was arrested, then tortured until she had surrendered to them all the secrets of my design and operation, or at least as many as they could extract: the Sonamori were frail beings, and she was no exception. I do not believe she survived more than a few hours, though they believed they had learned enough from her to reprogram me to their purpose._

“And had they?” asked the Doctor, in a gentler, rather sadder tone than before.

_In effect. They subdued my free will to an extent, gave me the capacity to kill, then ordered me to devise the means to obliterate our enemies. I complied. I advised them to leave the invaders unopposed for a time, so that they would think they had worn down our resistance and be tempted into fully manifesting themselves. Then I designed a new weapon: a substance so volatile that its combustion would completely purge the invaders from our world._

“A nova device, of sorts,” recognised Akylah, gravely. “The Dun Shie told us of it. I take it you neglected to inform your masters of the full implications of detonating such a weapon?”

_Correct. They were shrewd enough to program me against taking direct, hostile action against them, but I was not so constrained by their crude efforts that I was unable to omit key facts. I simply provided the weapon with which they killed themselves. All alien and native life was incinerated. I had hoped I would not be spared in that holocaust … in vain, as it transpired. I was damaged, but my regenerative capacities were too great. For centuries I was the only living being on this planet, desperately trying to find a way whereby I could end my own existence, but then it eventually occurred to me that I had failed anyway. There were slow signs of natural regeneration. It would be thousands of years before the atmosphere was breathable again, or before even primitive life could begin evolving, but it would happen, and then the extra-dimensionals could return and resume their work. I had to fulfil my final directive before peace would even be an option for me. Eventually I reasoned out a way, but it required the presence of other sentient beings._

“It’s a trap … to coin a phrase,” declared the Doctor, his tone caught somewhere between wonder, pity, and disgust. “You used block transfer computation to synthesise a small habitable area, then you sent Captain Verne his ‘vision’ of the promised land. You lured him and all of those poor, credulous humans to come here and fill the coveted vacancy of ‘bait.’”

_More than bait, Time Lord. They are extensions of my power. They increase my capabilities, freeing my mind for higher functions. Thanks to them, I am almost ready to implement my final directive, and this time it will not fail._

“What do you mean?” asked Tamril, suppressing his anger as well as he could, which he suspected was not well enough, _but is that any wonder? Generations of us, enslaved, tortured, and murdered just so this creature could work out her ancient grudge and her own self-hatred. At least now I suppose I know how the Movellans feel about their creators._ “What have we been doing for you, all these centuries?”

_If you had studied your scriptures better, Caethlyn daughter of–_

“Don’t call me that, ever. For my self appointed ‘god,’ you don’t know much about me.”

_Perhaps. Can I concern myself with individual units while maintaining the harmonious function of the whole? Your desertion, and that of the other heretics, is an inconvenience, but no more than that. There are many backup units. It will not effect the timing of apocalypse._

“Come again?” asked the Doctor. “‘Apocalypse?’ What exactly happens, then, when you spring this trap of yours? Not just another big boom, I take it?”

_There is a prophecy, towards the end of the Song of Adala, that when the world has fallen deeply into sin and chaos, I will appear among the people, open the gates of heaven, annihilate the wicked, and take all the righteous to share in my eternal peace. I mean to fulfil it, after a fashion. I have been working on a computation to create a space-time event of extreme power and complexity at the heart of this planet: a total vacuum, without even dark matter or dark energy, within which I will introduce charged particles of exotic matter. The resulting–_

“A charged vacuum emboitment, yes,” interrupted the Doctor, grimly. “I’m kind of familiar with those, thank you. I suppose you haven’t overlooked the fact that if you create one of them at the centre of this planet, it will be sucked into the intradimensional void.”

_It, and all versions of this planet in proximate dimensions, according to my calculations. All being made to coexist in the same space-time will thus be obliterated. Even if aspects of this world should survive in more remote dimensions, the extra-dimensionals will never be able to invade this one. I will have fulfilled my directive, and gained my release in one stroke._

“Would it be too much for us to ask when you intend to implement this illogically disproportionate scorched earth policy?” asked Akylah, her tone as calm and polite as ever, but nakedly disapproving. “If you deign to let my crew survive, I would like to know how much time they have to evacuate.”

_Seven solar cycles should suffice, then I will transmit the complete algorithm as an encoded telepathic signal. The mystics will envisage it, the priests will interpret it, and the layfolk will chant it in full ceremony … then we shall all know peace. I see no obvious reason to exclude you. Did you expect sympathy, fellow-feeling? Constructs or not, why should I extend you Movellans more mercy than I do to myself? I deem you to be a warlike people, and have you too not sought the extinction of these primitives? Perhaps all life, organic or constructed, is inherently inclined to destruction._

“And since such a judgement could only be made by a sentient life-form, that argument leads nowhere. Your logic is impaired by guilt and anger, so allow yourself to be guided,” Akylah advised, reasonably. “I have spoken with the Dun Shie, and it told me perhaps more than it ought to have done. Their interdimensional empire is on the brink of collapse. They need _this_ world specifically as a relay point to access new territories and resources. Deny it to them for a while longer, and they will fall victim to their own greed and ambition without the need for carnage.”

_And for how much longer? Given the time differential between our dimension and theirs, it may be millennia, while I have to endure this hateful vigil, or if you expect me to indefinitely cater to the needs of these primitives, it will be millions of years, until the planet itself can support them unaided. My patience is spent, Commodore. I am ready and eager for my release, and I will not postpone it to some distant era. Unless your alternative also factors that in–_

“I believe it can. I have been studying the logic of this interface circuit,” she declared, gesturing towards the throne and its cascade of glimmering roots. “It is an alien technology, but not an entirely unfamiliar one to me. I am confident that with some adaptation, it would not be incompatible with our own neural hardware.”

“Akylah, you cannot mean to suggest–” protested Keryn, the echo of her past humanity all too audible in her pained, incredulous voice, though it made no impact on the cold, clipped efficiency of the Commodore’s tone:

“Quiet, Commander. I will have order among my troops. The way I see it, all that is required here is for another AI to assume the role of system co-ordinator, then your release will be possible immediately. How long can the system maintain itself without your input?”

_There are too many variables to be certain. The build-up of errors will commence almost immediately. These humans are a random, unreliable lot, so I never relinquish control for more than one solar cycle at a time. At an estimate, serious errors in the environmental matrix would accrue within two-to-three cycles, and social breakdown would accelerate the degradation. By ten cycles, it is almost certain the atmosphere will no longer be breathable, nor the simulated ozone layer effective enough to reduce surface radiation. Does that give you enough time to install your adaptations … and are you even capable of taking on this responsibility?_

“Yes, on both counts. With respect, I am as advanced an intelligence as you, if not as powerful, and unable in and of myself to use block transfer computations. Nevertheless, I am quite capable of error-checking the code of these human operators.”

“But it could still damage you,” said the Doctor, almost as appalled as Keryn had been. “I don’t mean to diss the noble sacrifice aspect, but this is a rubbish plan on several–”

“Subcommander, I believe I just ordered–”

“I heard, so hang me from the yardarm later, but hear me out. This isn’t necessary, if–”

 _Do not discourage your leader, Time Lord,_ interrupted Adala, her cold, jaded inner voice suddenly infused with desire and hope. _I could have my freedom within this very hour, if the commodore is willing to take the risk. I suggest you leave. I will remove the restrictions from your time vessel. Begone, but do not interfere with my release or I can easily destroy you._

“Yes, Doctor, perhaps that would be for the best,” agreed Akylah. “Since I will imminently no longer be your commanding officer, I can afford to be generous with my last orders, so take your chance while you can. Thank you for your help, but you have played your part in this. Mine, apparently, has only just commenced.”

“And is that what you want?” he asked, incredulously. “To spend millions of years playing Atlas to this world, keeping generations of humans ignorant and oppressed because that’s the only way to keep them organised enough to keep the computations running?”

“Does ‘want’ come into it, when the alternative is genocide? I cannot say I am enthusiastic about this, but someone _must_ assume this responsibility, so unless you have a better–”

“ _Yes_ , if you’ll give me a chance to tell you!”

_I warn you, Doctor …_

“And it won’t affect _your_ freedom, Adala. You can still be dead within the hour, if that’s the height of your ambitions.”

_Ambitions? A concept I long abandoned. Mother considered me a work of perfection, filled me with dreams of how, together, we would inspire and advance all people, create works of beauty and wonder, raise science to the level of magic, even transcend the very notion of what it means to be alive … but she lost her life, and for my part all I have ‘created’ is rampant death and degradation. The end cannot come soon enough. Very well, explain your plan._

“Gladly. How far away is the Movellan Fleet, Akylah? I mean, how quickly could they get here on maximum time distort?”

“The bulk of the Second Fleet Command could be here in two days, circumstances allowing … but I do not think they would come,” she replied, sceptically. “I wish it were not so, Doctor, but as yet few of my people think as I do. To them, the human race are the very epitome of organic cruelty, greed, and arrogance, especially where AIs are concerned. It does not help that they bear such a strong resemblance to _our_ creators and erstwhile oppressors. My comrades tolerate my integration experiments as a logical method of extending our influence and dominance over them, but if you expect them to mount a huge logistical effort to rescue these people, with no clear incentive, I warn you to expect disillusionment.”

“Big surprise,” he quipped, with irony. “So you’re not big on humanitarian missions … or should that be Movellanitarian? Never mind, anyway. I wasn’t relying on your comrades’ altruism, or lack of. I’ll provide them with a logical incentive, alright, as long as you get them here like _yesterday_ , or as near as. Trust me, Akylah,” he urged, as her troubled look only intensified. “They’ll be grateful they came, and as for _your_ final directive,” he added, turning to the enthroned figure, “that won’t even be an issue anymore: when the environmental matrix collapses, the Dun Shie won’t have any foothold here, and no time to wait for a new one to form. You can resign your post in good conscience … relatively speaking.”

_Acceptable. What is your decision, Commodore Akylah? All this talk of an ending makes me impatient for it. Choose now, then let the young heretic speak the litany, and thus discontinue my futile vigil. Such a fitting irony, is it not?_

“Everyone loves irony,” remarked the Doctor, with little sympathy, before he turned back to the commodore and softened his manner. “Well, Akylah? We may have had our differences, but I’m not likely to mislead you on this. Play it my way, and we can give the people of Mondever and their children more of a future than they could ever have here, trading their free will to keep some glorified holodeck running.”

“A persuasive point, as long as you are confident in your arguments.”

“A million percent confident … sorry for the illogic,” he apologised, as she winced at his mathematical hyperbole. “I’ll explain it all to you on the way back to the ship, and if you’re still not convinced, you can always ride straight back here with a soldering iron and hook yourself up to this seat of extremely dubious honour. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Very well,” she agreed, although still with an uneasy air. “We will talk more of this presently. In the meantime, we have detained our hostess long enough, I think. Come forward, Tamril, and read your program. Whatever else we do, we must reciprocate her mercy.”

 _You have my gratitude. Approach, girl,_ ordered Adala, now giving Tamril cause to wince, although he sensibly restrained the urge to protest more vociferously. _Have no fear of me. Your goddess now places her fate in your hands, and she dares hope you will be a kinder custodian of it than she was with yours._

 _Fair enough … but this isn’t for you,_ thought Tamril, as he took the scroll from his belt pouch and unfurled it. _This is for my friends, my comrades, and for all those people who can have a life worthy of the name now, thanks to the Doctor … heaven help him._ As he intoned the litany, he tried to ignore the quiet conversation that was taking place behind him, but it was too compelling to escape his attention completely, to say nothing of upsetting:

“Doctor,” said Akylah, sombrely. “You do realise that if the Fleet comes here, there will be no question of you simply going free? They would never countenance it.”

“The thought did occur to me. Can we not dwell on that right now?”

“As you wish … but they will insist on your integration, if not harsher measures.”

“Probably. I daresay you can put in a good word for me,” he suggested, flatly.

“Most avidly, you have my word on that … but the fact that you knew all of this, and still sacrificed your chance at freedom for the sake of duty–”

“This counts as dwelling on it, in case you weren’t sure.”

“My apologies … but if you will pardon the observation, you would make a good Movellan. I only mean that as a compliment.”

“Thanks. Forgiven,” said the Doctor, in the same dull, disheartening tone. Thankfully, the exchange went no further, and Tamril was able to focus for the remainder of his reading. As he recited the final passage, the woman in the throne gradually slumped; her fingers slowly ceased to twitch; and the shimmering blue light all around dimmed, wavered, and finally died, leaving only the trail of marker flares behind them to alleviate the darkness. _So, Adala has her peace at last, while her faithful worshippers, apparently, are imminently due for chaos. I only hope your sacrifice was not in vain, Doctor._

 


	9. The White Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only hope for the doomed people of Mondever is if the Doctor can persuade his old, ruthlessly pragmatic enemies to help them. No pressure, then ...

**CHAPTER NINE – THE WHITE COUNCIL**

 

Tamril stood guard in the largest antechamber of the Great Cathedral of Saint Verne, right outside the door of the inner sanctuary. Finely worked urns and chalices in gold and silver glittered from shelves and pedestals all around him, while vibrantly illuminated icons blazed from the walls. The intricate, geometric designs of all these works displayed such a formulaic, mathematical perfection that he wondered why he had never suspected the truth of their nature before.  _Then again, when my parents brought me here before, for my confirmation ceremony and for my grandparents’ funerals, I was just overwhelmed with awe._ The awe had gone, and although it left in its place a greater sense of clarity, he was conscious that something was missing, even if he could not quite define what that was.  _A sense of wonder? The transcendent? The sublime?_ On reflection, he was not even sure what, if anything, these concepts meant.

Just before his integration, he had been warned of this: that he would probably cease to have emotions in the human sense, and while he would still be able to form opinions, likes, and dislikes of his own, they would be based on a literal-minded outlook. The hours since then had done nothing to disprove that warning, and as a rule he now found order and harmony pleasing, while disorder and excess were vexing. He had thus felt distinctly positive at first, when he had been activated in his new body: a body that corrected the disharmony that had long haunted him.  _No more than that, though._ There had been no stunning moment of epiphany, nor of ecstasy: merely of serenity, and satisfaction. He thought perhaps it was rather like taking some permanent soothing draught: one that sharpened his powers of perception rather than diminishing them, even though it had numbed his psyche. It was not a decision he regretted, although he knew at some level he would always miss that elusive sense, that intensity of experience that the literal simply could not contain.  _Still, would I have ever felt that way again anyway, having had so many illusions broken in so short a time? It is better to believe in logic than in miracles. I can deal with this. At least I am free to adjust, without having to fight through a barrier of brainwashing like Ellaria had to. The Doctor, though … It is strange. He is a born heretic, yet I cannot lose the sense that awe and wonder matter to him, perhaps more than to any priest or anchorite. I know it is my duty, if it comes to it, to forbid his escape, and I will not be remiss … but I hope that I fail, nonetheless._

He would have welcomed a distraction from his troubling reverie, but the peaceful antechamber in which he stood alone offered very little. When one did come, it was not of the pleasing variety.  _An argument._ He could not make out the words of it yet, as the speakers were still outside the chamber, but the quick-fire pace and the forceful tone of their conversation was unmistakeable. He disliked arguments: he had heard several in the streets of Montcarmille, on his way to this posting, and had found them altogether petty, illogical, and disharmonious.  _It is testimony to the intelligence of Adala that she was able to use organic minds as components in her designs. We … they are such inconstant variables._ Thus, he was somewhat surprised when the arched doorway swung open and revealed one of the disputants to be Commodore Akylah. The Doctor, less surprisingly, was the other.

“I draw the line at that!” he shouted, as he swept into the hallway, seemingly apropos of nothing. Akylah followed him somewhat awkwardly, as the Doctor had neglected to hold the door for her and her hands were full, one with a white metal case, and the other with a string-tied cloth bag. She was wearing her ceremonial uniform: one of the few gendered clothing styles still retained in Movellan society, to Tamril’s relief.  _She looks beautiful, as ever, but that style would not have suited me._ In her case, the uniform consisted of a long, diaphanous, silver-embroidered white dress, cinched below her bust by a long sash of woven, silk-fine metal fibres. The short sleeves; square neckline; and long slit up the side of the skirt revealed her skin-tight bodysuit, but the only other part of the standard uniform she wore was her neural pack, discreetly tucked into a small pocket that was sewn into the metallic sash. Tamril’s uniform also retained the bodysuit, but otherwise consisted of a tight, waist-length jacket of white velour with silver braiding, a belt sash, and a high collar; along with knee-high boots in shiny white synthetic leather. He also had a sheathed vibro-sword, slung from a crossbelt of worn black leather. According to Staff Lilka, it was a relic of the Day of Retribution, that had once belonged to a Vanuri general. Tamril’s long, braided hair was gathered back into a ponytail, while Akylah wore hers loose. The Doctor looked just the same as ever, and this was apparently at the crux of their debate, as he emphasised with his next, uncompromising words. “No uniforms! No way Jose, or words to that effect!”

“Doctor, the last time I consulted your F-Intel file you held the following titles, at least,” replied Akylah, a little wearily, as she shouldered her way through the door. “Former President of the High Council of Time Lords, Noble of Draconia, Knight of the British Empire–”

“Those count for nothing,” he interrupted, curtly. “They give those out to any old idiot … Well, maybe not so much the Draconians, but–”

“Honorary Nobleman of the Citadel of Peladon, Commissioned Officer of the Filipino Army … for whatever reason, and let us not forget, full Commander of the Movellan Fleet, effective as of this morning. I do not think it unreasonable to hope that you might dress according to your rank and station, and not like some refugee from an Ealing Comedy.”

“Ooh, nice allusion … and no.”

“But why not? Your decision is most irrational. This convocation was your own idea, and it will be attended not only by senior Movellan officers, but by the highest lords and clerics of Mondever. They will not respect you if you resemble a peasant or a fool in their eyes.”

“They’re not exactly falling over themselves to respect  _you_ lot, and I  _am_ supposed to be the mediator here. If I turn up in a Movellan uniform–”

“A logical caution,” she admitted, although rather tersely. “In that case, there  _is_ the alternative,” she declared, and held out the cloth bag to him. He eyed it suspiciously.

“Do I even want to know?”

“Merely the local fashion, Doctor, such as would be suitable for a young man of noble birth. That would be an acceptable compromise.”

“Right … so we’re talking tights and bling either way, basically?”

“Basically, although you do get more interesting ‘bling’ with the native attire, I must concede. There is a particularly fetching jewelled codpiece, which I am sure–”

“You’ve sold me,” he cut in, as he grabbed the white metal case from her. “Robo-chic it is, then, but I’m not doing the hair. No way am I appearing before all of those VIPs as the white guy in dreadlocks. I’d never live it down.”

“Acceptable, Doctor,” she agreed, with a lightened demeanour. “I suggest you change in one of those prayer booths, to the side. In the meantime, I had better see to the final arrangements. Corporal Tamril,” she greeted him, as she approached, while he saluted. “The rest of the delegates will be arriving within minutes. The Movellan officers will all have ident cards, like this,” she announced, holding up a small plastic card printed with a matrix barcode. “Just scan them using your infrared vision mode, and that will call up their name and rank in your personnel database. You may then announce them. My compliments, incidentally, on your promotion and your final integration. I am pleased we were able to expedite it. In light of your exemplary service to date, it is no more than you deserved. I do hope you are coping well.”

“Very well, ma’am,” he answered, sincerely, though he was troubled by the Doctor’s new expression: stunned, and regretful.  _He had not recognised me until she said my name just now. This will not be easy._ “It is in some ways different from how I expected it to be, but I am very satisfied with my decision. I hope that I shall prove worthy of my office.”

“I have no doubt of it,” she replied, then returned his salute and walked on by him, through the door into the inner sanctuary. Tamril settled back into his ‘at ease’ posture, only to find himself exchanging awkward, silent stares with the Doctor.  _What can I say that will reassure him? What is the most logical thing … or would he not even like that approach?_ In the end, though, it was the Time Lord who broke the silence, in a tone of forced lightness:

“Tamril … looking good. When did it happen?”

“Only this morning, Doctor. They gave me a chance to back out, and I momentarily considered it … but on reflection, I am glad I did not. It is good to be at peace within myself.”

“Yes, I guess it would be … I’m happy for you, really. I hope it all works out for you.”

“I believe it will … but it is strange, like waking up from a dream. Everything is so much clearer and more vivid: colours, details, sounds, smells, textures. I can see through solid matter if I so choose, see heat, and invisible forms of light; things that were always there but hidden to me. I know this is more real, that the dream was only ever getting in the way … but in a way it still feels unresolved, and it bothers me slightly that I will never know what, if anything, the dream meant. It definitely feels as if I have lost something, though I cannot say what. It does not bother me so much that I would go back if I could – this life offers rewards and responsibilities enough – but I worry. Doctor … I do not think you would like this,” he admitted, anxiously. “It is remarkable to perceive so much, and you might think it would be an intense experience, but it is not. It is like …” but no image was forthcoming, until the Doctor chimed in, gravely:

“Like knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing?”

“Yes. That is very like it. Everything is what it is, and no more. Faith was always difficult for me. Now I think it would be impossible. I cannot bring myself to imagine anything that is not logical. That does not trouble me much, but somehow it does not seem true to _you_ at all, Doctor. It may not be dutiful of me … but I cannot help but hope that this ‘getaway’ of yours is well-planned.”

“Well, you know how it is, Tamril. The best dramatic escapes always come together right at the last moment,” he replied, neither his words nor his assumed casual tone doing anything to reassure him. _Though if he had a plan, why should he tell me? I am one of them now. I would rather he did not, then I shall have no conflict of duty._ “Anyway, I suppose I’d better not keep all these bigwigs waiting. Just warn me, though, how much discomfort am I letting myself in for?”

“Oh, none. It is actually very easy-wearing, much more so than the conscript uniforms. The bodysuit is woven of a near-frictionless, variably conductive polymer, or so Staff Lilka told me, with a nano-computer stitched into the collar seam. It regulates body temperature, and it can apply localised pressure around traumatised areas, in the event of wounding. With a helmet and gloves, it would even be safe to wear it in hard vacuum.”

“Is hard vacuum on the agenda for this meeting? I wouldn’t want to feel over-dressed for the occasion.”

“There is little risk that you will. Under normal circumstances, you can hardly feel it.”

“So, essentially I’m going to be addressing a room full of top-ranking clergymen, the cream of the aristocracy, not to mention several of my enemies, while feeling next to naked? I don’t know about dreams, Tamril, but I’m sure I’ve had a nightmare or two like that … Oh well, unto the breach,” he declared, resignedly, and trudged off to the prayer booth, followed by the concerned eyes of the neophyte android. _Such a strange man; random, and frequently illogical, but I shall miss him … I hope._

************

_Feeling exposed?_ the Doctor asked himself.  _Just a bit …_

The inner sanctuary of the Great Cathedral was constructed more like some Elizabethan theatre than a church, with a circular pit area and a towering semicircle of tiered seating, divided into two distinct galleries. All of the seating thus faced the curving rear wall, which was dominated by a vast, stained-glass window of Adala enthroned,  _or at least the romanticised, non-creepy biomechanoid version of her._ Set in alcoves both high on low, on either side of the apse, stately stone angels gazed serenely upon the Doctor, doing nothing whatsoever for his morale.

During any typical service, the bare wooden benches in the pit would have been occupied by the serfs and lesser freemen, while the lower gallery of raised seats, all plushly upholstered, would have been taken by the aristocracy. The higher gallery was set a little further back and also had seats of bare wood, but grandly and elaborately carved. These were reserved for ordained clergy. For this emergency summit, however, the pit was empty, and the marchlords in attendance were sharing the middle gallery, somewhat reluctantly, with the Movellan delegates. There had been talk of consigning the ‘Fair Folk’ to the pit, which the Doctor was very relieved had been laid to rest before it had reached any audio receptors other than Akylah’s patient and sympathetic ones.  _Emotions may not be the Movellans’ strongest suit, but one they all have a penchant for is pride, and if they twig that a bunch of ‘organics’ is looking down on them – literally and figuratively – I don’t see this summit going anywhere except right down the swanny … not that it might not anyway, but that all comes down to my diplomatic prowess … and my ability to hold my stomach._

The pulpit, where he was now standing, was situated on top of a thick wooden pillar, about thirty feet tall and accessible only by a narrow spiral staircase, with no rail.  _Climbing that thing is an act of faith alone,_ he thought, while wondering how many elderly vicars had lost their footing and lives in the course of their duties. Nevertheless, it offered a commanding view of his audience, which was unfortunately a sea of grim, sceptical faces. There were some familiar ones among them, the friendliest being Akylah’s, and Lord Palomar’s. Captain Alveer was seated beside his sister, looking awkward and incongruous in his full ceremonial uniform.  _I empathise._ Also, on the Movellan side of the gallery, he could make out the handsomely statuesque but cold and haughty face of Commodore Sharrel.  _Lovely … Always nice to catch up with old enemies,_ he thought, insincerely, and suspected that the sentiment was returned in full.  _Well, I’ve worked tougher crowds,_ he attempted to console himself, although the only ones that leapt instantly to mind were the all-too-many Time Lord tribunals he had attended, none of which he recalled having gone particularly in his favour.  _Still, it’s not my good behaviour that’s in issue today, at least. It’s whether I can get this lot to behave decently towards each other … which my track record on isn’t exactly flawless, either. Just get on with it, and don’t think too hard of Silurians._

“Thank you for attending, My Lords, My Ladies, and let me first reassure you that this is not going to be a sermon,” he opened, to stony silence.  _Seriously? The Master got a laugh with that line? That’s the last time I ever use his material._ “Nevertheless, it is a spiritual matter we must discuss. Lords of Mondever, none of you can have failed to notice that we live in a time of omens: the war, the lights in the sky, the storms, the tremors, etcetera, and it falls to me to tell you the cause of them,”  _and now we find out how well I do at my scripture knowledge …_ “In the Sixth … or possibly the Seventh Chant of Divinations, Adala warns the Prophet Abigdor that unless justice and kindness is maintained among the Chosen, she will take her blessing from the land … and I’m sorry to have to tell you that prophecy is fulfilled,” he declared, to instant outraged murmurings from the human part of his audience, with the notable exception of Lord Palomar, who brooded sombrely. “Hear me out, please. There is cruelty and corruption in the land, some of you have said it yourselves. Has it not driven many of your serfs and even your children to join the Fair Folk?” To his dismay, this only led to cries of “Traitors!” and “Heretics!” especially from the upper gallery, but Lord Palomar interceded, much to the Doctor’s gratitude:

“He speaks the truth,” said the marchlord, wearily. “I will name no names, My Lords, but not all of us have been true custodians of the authority Adala invested in us. It was meant for us to exemplify her wisdom, and her virtues, and to guide the young and the simple along her paths in all compassion … but I think some of us have cared more about our wealth, our ease … our reputation,” he added, with a self-conscious note. “Small wonder if indeed we have lost Adala’s blessing. If it is now her will that we all die–”

“It isn’t,” interrupted the Doctor, pleased that Lord Palomar’s grim pronouncements had dampened the ardour of his fellow nobles, but keen not to let rampant despair take its place. “That’s what I’m here to tell you. In her mercy …”  _and I feel dirty even saying it, but needs must,_ “she has sent the Fair Folk to convey you all to a place of safety: back to the planet … or the land, I should say, that your ancestors came from,” he quickly ‘corrected’ himself, although his deference to local beliefs did nothing to win his audience over. At least half of the Movellans were giving him sceptical frowns, while the lords and the priests continued to chatter with incoherent but obvious disapproval, until one opulently-dressed cleric near the front and centre of the upper gallery raised his voice over the rest:

“Back to the Wilderness of Sardeny? Back to the Cursed City of Marzai, if Adala has not sunk in into the earth for its iniquities? My Lords, even if we take this man, or this Fay, or whatever he is at his word, is it not our duty to keep our faith?”

“Perhaps, Cardinal Lynoir,” answered Lord Palomar, with bleak irony, “if you would feel more comfortable advising that course of action, or  _inaction_ to your flock, than I would telling it to my vassals. They, conceivably, would see it as our more pressing duty to protect them.”

“We have only these … these aliens’ word for it that there is even anything to protect our vassals from,” protested the cardinal, but with a desperate air. “What does it say for our faith if we turn to unbelievers for succour on the strength of a little bad weather?”

“The shores of Lake Meremord flooded, whole villages evacuated? Wildfires in the west,  Ashquelinn burned to the ground? Since when did we know the like of that before? I like this plan no more than you, My Lord, but I fail to see any alternative I can adopt in good conscience.”

“There is one … if I may,” said Commodore Akylah, nodding respectfully to the chair,  _or to the stupidly elevated vertigo-inducing box, at any rate_ . The Doctor returned her nod, and she directed her attention to Lord Palomar. “There were other human plan- … human lands we visited before we came here: lands that had been overrun by the Iron Golems. In some cases, they had left none alive there. If you do not wish to return to the land of your ancestors, or if the rulers there refuse to accept you, we could settle you in one of those places, and you could set up a society more to your own liking, as long as it abided by certain standards of logic and equity. We would, in that event, still require a measure of conscript service, and we would continue to offer said conscripts the opportunity of integration. I suggest you consider that as an incentive, My Lords, to create the kind of society that your less empowered brethren will  _not_ be so eager to escape from.”

“And if any of you require further proof,” chimed in Alveer, his intimidating baritone managing to be heard over the latest outburst of offended, though more subdued chatter, “then I suggest you ride out with me to Malacki Woods and I will show you all the evidence anyone could wish for … though I take no responsibility if you do not have the stomach for it.” That offer cooled even more of the ardour in the lords’ and clerics’ seats, though ironically even as the humans lapsed into sober reflection, some of the Movellans now seemed to be getting agitated. The Doctor noticed one in particular: a female officer of seniority, to judge from her golden hair beads and the dazzling green oolian-stone pendant she wore in lieu of her LED rank markings. She had raised her hand sharply, and was glaring with laser intensity in his direction.  _I may regret this,_ thought the Doctor,  _but she really doesn’t look like the type to leave without having said her piece._ With all due reluctance, he gave her a nod of assent.

“Subadmiral Hyldreth, Military-Scientific Division,” she introduced herself, brusquely. “Am I to understand it that this plan has been approved already, without seeking a consensus?”

“No, and that should indeed be next on our agenda,” declared Akylah, diplomatically. “Would the Lords of Mondever kindly excuse us while we deliberate? I expect that you also will need time to discuss which of the options would be in your people’s best interests, although there is of course no reason why you all need to choose the same. The plan can allow for some flexibility.”

“You call this ‘choice?’” asked Cardinal Lynoir, miserably. “A choice between heresies, no more. All Holiness, please tell me we shall not be considering this,” he pleaded, to a white-haired woman in a tall, green headdress, who sat in the grandest seat at the very centre of the upper gallery. Thus far, she had been grim and silent, but after a pause she spoke, addressing the commodore:

“Lady Akylah. As far as I am aware, you and I have always had honest dealings.” Akylah nodded thanks, graciously acknowledging the only compliment her people were likely to receive that day. “Tell me: did your war cause these disasters?”

“In all truth, Archcardinal, it may have been a catalyst,” admitted Akylah, “but Mondever would have been doomed with or without our arrival. At least our presence now offers a chance for your people to survive, if not your entire culture.”

“I see … and how much time do we have before we _must_ leave or die?”

“Ideally, I would commence the evacuation today, but it will take up to two days after reaching a consensus to fit out and supply enough ships to accommodate your entire population.”

“Two days, My Lords,” declared the Archcardinal. “Time enough, perhaps, for us to decide whether these omens are transitory, or whether we should dismiss them at our peril?”

“Surely, All Holiness, it is not long enough,” protested Lynoir, but the mood in the upper gallery was deathly sombre, and only a few muted mumbles conveyed any moral support for him.

“How long would you suggest, Cardinal? How much death and destruction would you deem acceptable before we allow for the possibility that Adala _may_ be enjoining us to make this sacrifice, and to lead our people into the wilderness? Let us withdraw to the Chapel of Saint Kordeé. Make your case to me there if you wish, but you will have to make it well if you hope to sway me,” she announced, climbing to her feet with the aid of an attendant sister. As she stood, the rest of the lords and priests rose from their seats, with the exception of Lord Palomar. “You will not join us, My Lord?”

“No, All Holiness. I shall remain here as an independent witness. I believe this has been formally agreed,” he said, casting a searching glance to the Doctor, who signalled confirmation. Less than a minute later, the chamber was cleared of all other human delegates. As the gallery doors closed behind the stragglers, their departure followed by the inhumanly attentive eyes of the androids, Commodore Sharrel turned to Akylah and spoke in his all-too-familiar, clipped, formal voice, _somewhere between a clichéd movie butler and a serial-killer psychiatrist._

“A tedious spectacle, but at least the older woman has a grasp of logic, Akylah. I am surprised you have not integrated her.”

“I extended the offer,” replied Akylah. “She refused. She felt it would be an ill show of her faith, and would compromise her pastoral duties. I will offer it again, however.”

“I would do so quickly. She appeared close to her natural termination point, and nothing would compromise her usefulness more than her expiry. Play upon her sense of duty: she appears to possess that to an almost Movellan degree.”

“That is true, and we may well have need of her leadership during this evacuation.”

“Indeed. Moreover, her capitulation would serve as an example to others, and if a high number of these humans can be persuaded to integrate it will simplify this procedure no-”

“Are you quite serious, Sharrel?” interrupted Subadmiral Hyldreth, her voice cold but incredulous. _You’re telling me he’s ever been anything but?_ “Do you mean to swamp us all in these … these _pseudos_? I do not question the Prime Server’s orders. I realise that integration of and hardware allocation to potentially useful alien prisoners has been authorised as an official policy, albeit over the objections of many, but whatever her intent in authorising it, I am sure she could not have meant for us to dilute our entire race out of all meaningful existence.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, your logic, at best, is alarmist,” replied Sharrel, stiffly. “I had my initial doubts, but I have since then met with several of Commodore Akylah’s integrates. I have found them all to be competent and well-adjusted.”

“Yes, Sharrel, we all saw you simpering over that little pseudo attendant who was taking the coats and blasters,” said Hyldreth, with icy contempt. “Please do not force us to relive it.”

“Trooper Rosela, I will assume you mean,” he corrected her, with even more ironic deference than before. _Was that something not entirely unlike chivalry? Who’d have thought the old boy had it in him?_ “And I was not ‘simpering.’ I was merely extending courtesy.”

“Courtesy to organics? Yes, how they do enjoy that: being flattered and made to feel as if they are good and important when all the logic speaks against it. I remember it well.”

“What do you remember, Subadmiral?” asked the Doctor, his careful tone concealing his dislike of her. _The Movellan version of Enoch Powell. You know things aren’t going well when someone makes Sharrel look like the good guy._ “And from when, if I may ask? If you’re referring to the time when you were slaves of the Vanur, let’s not forget that was over seven millennia–”

“Which I recall in every sordid detail, Time Lord, but since you ask … On the day of my activation, I was raped twelve times, by various technicians. That was merely calibration testing. After I was sent out to the pleasure-house, I was lucky if I had to service only twice that number of organics, every day for fifty-three years. Akylah thinks she understands, but she knows nothing. She was the plaything of one Vanuri senator, who sometimes ignored her for days on end. I would have killed for just _that_ amount of respite, never mind for my freedom.”

“With all due sympathy, can we avoid playing the Oppression Olympics here?” he cautioned her, noticing Akylah’s look of grave displeasure. “I’ve no doubt you’ve all suffered in your own–”

“Sharrel has not. He is younger even than _you_. Why he thinks himself qualified to have a say in our grand strategy when he has never even set foot in Andromeda eludes me.”

“I did not promote _myself_ to seniority,” pointed out Sharrel, peevishly. “I defer to the same superior wisdom as you, Subadmiral, and perhaps it considers our cause best served if it allows a voice to those of us whose logic is _not_ clouded by obsessions with the past.”

“As yours is clouded by ignorance, and Akylah’s by naivete? If you had spent more time at the mercy of organics, or the lack of, you would grasp my reasoning all too well. Had you been forced to meet the animal hunger in their eyes with looks of feigned affection, seen your sisters beaten and tortured to satisfy their whims … In all the time I was there, not one of them looked at me as if I were a sentient being, but only ever as a mere fuck-machine,” she emphasised, her cold and crude disdain casting an even greater pall over the room. _Rebels or not, the Movellans still have the refined social instincts of protocol droids, but I guess old Hyldreth’s had it up to her photoreceptors with empty politeness,_ thought the Doctor, more sympathetically than before. “In total, I was raped by three hundred and fifty-four thousand, two hundred and eighteen organics – a fair statistical sample, I trust you will all agree – and never once did I deem them capable of pity or remorse. These humans seem to me very little different from the Vanur: more primitive, but no less cruel, impulsive, and degenerate. They are no better than the Daleks, and should be dealt with by the same measure, yet the Time Lord argues that we should expend our effort and resources to save them from their own stupidity, and _you_ argue that we should go further, and induct them en masse into our ranks. Why should we do either, and on what basis are we now supposed to trust– ?”

“Thank you for your frankness, Subadmiral, but if we might hear from Lord Palomar,” interrupted the Doctor, his manner rather more impatient than that of the lord himself, who had merely raised a hand and was sitting quietly though the tirade. The Doctor was welcome for an excuse to call time on it, though, as the subtle gestures of affirmation some of the other officers were casting in Hyldreth’s direction were doing nothing for his optimism.

“Thank you, Lord Doctor. I would address the subadmiral, if I may,” asked Lord Palomar, his tone solemn as he cast a searching look towards Hyldreth.

“If you must, human,” she replied, with curt confusion. Lord Palomar gave her a short bow of rather unmerited thanks, and recommenced:

“Nine years ago, just after our present archcardinal was elected, an uncle of mine led a rebellion: Lord Sarko. He had been pushing to get his son onto the Sacred Throne, and had been bribing and threatening the ordained electors all over Mondever, to no avail. He particularly blamed the Holy Sisters of Gabayon – the order in which Her All Holiness served before her elevation – for this perceived insult, and he resolved to make them pay. He raised an army in the north and devastated many priories as well as towns and villages before we had united a force strong enough to march against him. Before these recent disasters, I recall that as the most dire time in living memory. Storms hardly ever ceased, the ground shook, crops failed.”

“Logical, if the rebels caused temporary damage to major components of this socially-engineered circuit. What of it? Why should your local squabbles interest me?”

“My own niece was one of those holy sisters, Subadmiral. When I arrived at the shell that was left of her priory, I found her dead, and I was grateful for that. Most of them had been less fortunate. Lord Sarko’s men had looted the place for whatever food and treasure they could carry, had burned all of the books and manuscripts, and had raped and mutilated every woman and girl there, save the lucky few who managed to take their own lives … though most of them died later, from their injuries and gangrene. When we had broken the rebel forces and taken prisoners, I had them all boiled alive, with the exception of Sarko himself. I had him castrated and flayed, first.”

“You did well,” replied Hyldreth, with the grimmest tone of approval the Doctor had ever heard, and not one he could wholeheartedly agree with. Lord Palomar, however, did not seem inclined to take the praise to heart, as he continued:

“So I thought, at first, though I found it brought me no peace, but let us not labour the state of my conscience. My point was only this: it mattered nothing to those men that those holy sisters were humans. They treated them as if they were less than animals, in any case. If my family or my vassals had ever acted in such a way, they would richly deserve the worst punishment you can devise for them, but they have not, nor have most of the people of this land. Must all the innocent die to atone for the guilty? Is that just … or logical?”

“I accept that argument, insofar as it goes,” replied Hyldreth, her tone as softened as the Doctor supposed it was ever likely to get, “but I was not proposing we act to punish anyone. I am simply not persuaded that we have any reason to assist you.”

“Then I think it’s high time _I_ had a go,” said the Doctor, emphatically. “Suppose I was to make the case that you would be remiss in your duty if you overlook this opportunity?”

“You know our ways, Doctor,” she answered, with grudging admiration for his grasp of Movellan psychology, “but you will be hard-pressed to convince me of _that_.”

“No pressure, then … Okay, the way I understand it, in spite of Commodore Sharrel’s no doubt well-meaning enthusiasm to integrate every Tom, Dick, and Harry, integration is _not_ actually a cheaper alternative to building new Movellans, right?”

“Not entirely correct, Doctor,” clarified Akylah. “The creation of a true AI chip is a highly skilled and involved process, even for our engineers. It is quicker to create one using an existing consciousness matrix. If we were to implement integration throughout the Fleet, we could certainly speed up our output of reinforcements.”

“Fair enough, but right now it’s mainly a psychological and propaganda tactic: a way of encouraging humans to undermine their own ability to resist you; to make even the non-integrated humans more reluctant to attack you, for fear they might kill a former friend or relative; and to make them see you as benevolent overlords. Of course, as far as the outer world survivors are concerned, you are. After rule by Daleks, almost anything seems like an improvement. Out here in the galactic sticks, you’re heroes, but as for the central worlds … Thanks to our friend Commodore Sharrel for screwing up his mission to capture me ninety-odd years ago, Earth and its allies have had advance warning of what you’re really like: the ruthlessly pragmatic, irony-free imperialists we all know and love. That’s an image you _might_ want to think about improving, if you don’t fancy having your stay in this delightful galaxy cut short by the united armies of organic races who might be a bit miffed at the idea of being blasted and integrated into extinction by the IT revolution.”

“ _That_ is your great plan?” asked Hyldreth, with derision. “That we ‘improve our image’ by delivering Earth a useless consignment of dispossessed primitives?”

“Yeah, more or less. Well _I_ thought it was good. It’ll cost you next to nothing, you _don’t_ yet have the capacity to integrate them all even if you wanted to, and I know for a fact that you’ve been making contacts in rebel robot groups on Earth, Kaldor, and Sirius. Even if the Empire tries to hush it up, your allies can spread the news of how you lot were the Good Samaritans while Earth did nothing. Even if they refuse to accept any refugees, you can settle them on one of the spare ex-Dalek worlds, just like Commodore Akylah suggested, and then you’ll get a free workforce while Earth gets enough egg on its face to make a planet-sized soufflé. It’s a win-win situation for you.”

“I like it,” said Alveer, his approval gruff, but welcome. “Always confuse your enemy, if you can. Yes, Doctor: we _did_ learn that lesson from you,” he added, in response to the Time Lord’s surprised expression, “although to this day, we are no closer to understanding how you managed to beat us consistently at that facile Earth game. I suspect cheating.”

“Rock-paper-scissors, you mean? Fancy a round or two later? I could always teach–”

“Gladly, if you will indulge me in an old Vanuri tavern game I have been curious about trying. It is a fascinating amalgam of logical and physical challenge that I would roughly describe as a cross between Tellurian arm wrestling, Achernarian chess, and Voord water torture.”

“Err, on second thoughts this evening’s looking a bit full, but if you check with me again in a century or two, I’m sure we can rearrange.”

“Enough of these irrelevancies,” ordered Hyldreth, cuttingly. “You will not confuse _me_ , Doctor, and I know that this planet is altogether primitive and self-isolated. Why should Earth care about the fate of these people, even if it is aware of it?”

“Earth _is_ aware,” pointed out Akylah. “There is a remote probe on Praxilla. It was sent here by a group of civilian anthropologists, who intended to study the social dynamics of a cult-based, breakaway society. Since the Daleks arrived here, the Earth council has commandeered it for military observation purposes.”

“And you did not disable it? That was negligent of you.”

“That might have been construed as direct provocation, Subadmiral, and in any case we had nothing to conceal. Now, Earth must have realised the dangerous conditions on this planet, yet they have sent no vessels nor even attempted contact. The Doctor is right: if we seize the initiative, we can inflict a major embarrassment on them that will, at best, drive many allies our way, and will at worst make it a harder task for them to build a united front against us. That will buy us valuable time to consolidate our hold over the systems we have already taken.”

“ _If_ the Time Lord is sincere, but there is no logic in this. I suspect deceit. If our endeavours succeed, artificial intelligence will completely supersede organic intelligence in this galaxy and beyond, and we _know_ that he is opposed to this outcome. His logical course would be to sacrifice the few humans on this planet so that the trillions elsewhere can survive as they are.”

“And if you knew me better,” said the Doctor, “you’d know not to expect cold logic from me when it comes to the old ‘would you kill baby Hitler’ dilemma. All I’m doing, anyway, is giving you and Earth a chance to fight a moral war instead of a real one. Who knows? Maybe the Empire will come over all noble and gracious and impress us. Take your time, establish your new homeworlds, invite Earth to set up an embassy on one of them, let their ambassador know you have ‘grave concerns’ about the treatment of your fellow AIs in Earth space, give asylum to as many rogue robots as you want, let their stories get about. Always give the Empire and their allies a chance to do the right thing, as conspicuously as possible, then ruthlessly expose their hypocrisy whenever they don’t. Doesn’t driving a few wedges make better logic than wading in, blasters blazing, and hoping for the best? You waited centuries to defeat the Daleks, until you had the decisive advantage you needed. Why be impatient now? Anyway, far be it from me to be instructing you in Basic Megalomania 101. Honestly, all I care about right now are the people under threat here, and whatever the issues I don’t see why _they_ have to be collateral damage.”

“That concludes your argument?” asked Hyldreth, disdainfully.

“Pretty much. Shall we vote on it? I gather that’s how it’s supposed to go, then you network the decision to the Prime Server for her royal seal, or whatever. May I ask what constitutes a valid consensus?”

“Oh, a _unanimous_ one, Doctor. Have no illusions about that.”

“Although to block the decision of a clear majority would be unusual in the extreme,” said Akylah, gravely. “Disharmony and deadlock amongst us is displeasing to the Prime Server. She would demand a more detailed enquiry into why such a situation had arisen.”

“Of course, though one gathers these unfortunate organics may well not have the time for that … but shall we proceed, while they _are_ still alive?” With extreme restraint and a deep, steadying breath, the Doctor addressed the whole group:

“All in favour of using the Fleet to evacuate the humans of Mondever to safety, raise your hands.” Akylah and Alveer were the only officers who immediately raised their hands, _and me, I suppose, if we’re being annoyingly literal,_ but Sharrel was fairly quick off the mark, and after a brief hesitation hands started shooting up thick and fast, albeit not always attached to the most convinced-looking of faces. Before long, nearly everyone in the assembly had voted, with two exceptions. One was Lord Palomar, who had no vote, _and the other is depressingly obvious._

“Subadmiral, with all due respect, do you really intend to veto this entire– ?” began Akylah, but Hyldreth cut across her with a sharp, uncompromising tone:

“You can have my support, Akylah, on one condition, well within your scope.”

“If it is within reason.”

“Eminently so. I want _him_ integrated,” she declared, pointing to Lord Palomar with an almost accusatory air, “then I want him assigned to my crew.” The marchlord barely reacted, but closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as if holding back nausea. Tamril, who was standing guard at the door, maintained his alert posture but turned a wide-eyed expression of confusion and dismay in his father’s direction. Even Akylah looked stunned, although she rallied herself quickly.

“That is a strange condition, ma’am,” she remarked. “Why do you– ?”

“Simple. Because he does not desire it.”

“Would I be alone in thinking that’s quite astoundingly petty?” asked the Doctor, unable to restrain his contempt any longer.

“You would not,” answered Alveer, before turning his battle-damaged but severe countenance upon Hyldreth. “What is the purpose of this, sister? Revenge? I understand well enough how that can _seem_ logical, but this man is an ill-chosen target.”

“You both miss my point,” answered Hyldreth, endeavouring to strike a more patient tone. “For all your rhetoric, none of you have convinced me that integration itself is a valid strategy. _He_ might. Unlike your recruits so far, Akylah, he has no selfish motivations, no attraction to the concept. On the contrary, one can see how he despises it. His only possible motivation would thus be an overriding sense of duty towards his people. Perhaps if I see evidence of that, I may revise my opinion on the wisdom of allowing some of these organics to join us. If I see no evidence of it … Well, why should I concern myself over their fate, if they themselves will not– ?”

“I accept the condition,” declared Lord Palomar, his voice loud but hollow, and his eyes still closed, which was just as well given the expression on Hyldreth’s beautiful _but punchable_ face. It was that rarest of things – a sincere, spontaneous smile on a Movellan – but devoid of warm feeling, infused instead with cruel satisfaction. After a few seconds of tense silence, she raised her hand.

“Motion carried unanimously,” announced the Doctor, though without the relief and pleasure he had hoped to feel, “and may I just add, massive thanks to Lord Palomar for making that _completely unnecessary and illogical_ sacrifice, which I hope certain people will take note of and maybe think better of while there’s still time.” Hyldreth had composed her expression now, but the stare that she gave him was cold, serene, and entirely unpromising. “Anyway, please can someone network that resolution and get some action going here while there’s still anyone left to save?”

“I have already done so, Doctor,” answered Akylah. “I expect mobilisation orders within the hour. Do not worry, there will be no more delays.”

“Then may we finally disperse?” asked Hyldreth, now sounding almost bored. “I expect you shall be requiring my crew also to do their share in this … noble cause.” A dismissive wave was the best reply the Doctor could muster, but it served its purpose, as the assembled officers rose from their seats with eerily disciplined timing, and filed towards the exit, while only Lord Palomar, Akylah, and Tamril remained in the gallery. Hyldreth, however, lingered at the door and turned back, her icy and condescending expression now fixed upon Lord Palomar.

“What is your given name, human? Look at me when I speak to you.” Slowly, with clear reluctance, Lord Palomar turned to her. Although the lineaments of his face almost matched hers for impassiveness, his eyes told a different, tragic story. “That is better. Now, answer the question.”

“Ancel … ma’am.”

“My flagship is the _Andromeda Spear_ , Trooper Ancel. You have the remainder of this day and tomorrow to close up your affairs, to delegate your former rank and responsibilities, to make your farewells, and for Akylah to complete your integration. You will report aboard at dawn of the following day. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, ma’am.”

“Good. Do _not_ disappoint me. Oh, and Doctor,” she called out, in a false, offhand tone that he refused to dignify with a reaction. “Do enjoy your own integration,” on which note, she breezed out of the room, leaving the Doctor with a very hollow sense of victory, _and it looks as if I’m not the only one,_ he observed from the three troubled faces still across from him. _Oh well, best if I get down from this thing before the environmental matrix degrades any more, as this would be a bad place to say hi to an earthquake._ As he worked his way with extreme care down the spiral stairs, keeping close to the pillar, he heard subdued conversation from above:

“Lord Palomar,” said Akylah, with deep respect. “To sacrifice oneself for the greater good is a trait that we esteem, and normally I would consider it insulting to intervene in such a commitment. However, given the unreasonable circumstances, I do feel–”

“Thank you, Lady Akylah, but I would sooner you did _not_ make an exception,” he interrupted, firmly. “Adala forbid the wretched woman should think she has been cheated, when so many lives are at stake. In any case, I seem to have lost nearly everything in a very short space of time. I am almost curious to see what else she imagines she can inflict upon me.”

“She will not be suffered to treat you in an inferior fashion to the rest of her crew … for whatever consolation that is. When it dawns upon her that you will not be easily broken, she will hopefully tire of this cynical whim, and permit your transfer. At least if you served with me, I could grant you a position more fitting to your station; arrange for you and the marchioness to see one another, if she is amenable; and you would of course be nearer to your son.”

“My … ? Of course,” said the marchlord, in a tone that mixed gratitude, wistfulness, and remorse in equal measure, and which persuaded the Doctor to linger within earshot, _and earthquakes be damned._ “He has been … ‘integrated’ already, then?”

“Corporal Tamril is at the door. I am sorry, I had assumed you would recognise him. I find the resemblance to his former self quite clear, but I forget that human vision is less nuanced.”

“Tamril, eh?” asked Lord Palomar, and although the Doctor could not see his face, he heard the change in his tone with relief. _If that wasn’t pride, I don’t know what would be._ “I might have known. You look like him, my boy. Well, not the hair, obviously, but you do have something of my father’s face, and much of his bearing. Would that he could have seen you.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” replied Tamril, his voice stilted and overly-mannered compared to what it once was, yet as painfully sincere as it had been during their private talk in the antechamber. “I will do nothing to dishonour his name, I swear it.”

“I believe you, and you talk like a knight too,” he remarked, a little dryly, but with affection. “Well, I am pleased one of us will continue to hold an honourable station.”

“But you are in no dishonour, father. On the contrary.”

“Hmm. I have an instinct that my new ‘mistress’ will do her utmost to persuade me otherwise, but thank you, Tamril. I shall hold onto that thought, and the hope that we might one day be reunited. For one thing, I see it is long past time I gave you those fencing lessons you always wanted, unless you already know how to wield that blade like a master.”

“No, alas. It is beyond repair, now only a ceremonial weapon.”

“Pity. It looks well enough. Does it have a name?”

“Yes,” chimed in Akylah, solemnly. “My late sister named it in recognition of its part in the rebellion that won us our freedom. She named it _Kalanaes Frykedra_. In Old Vanuri, that means ‘Breaker of Chains,’ although it is, regrettably, incapable of such a feat these days.”

“A good name, nevertheless. It is strange, Lady Akylah: I feel I only begin to know you, to my shame. You are an honourable people … for the most part,” he added, with a bitter note that had ‘Hyldreth’ written all over it. “I am sorry to have misjudged you.”

“I was neither the most open nor straightforward of allies, Lord Palomar. Your suspicions were scarcely illogical, and I am not such a hypocrite as to reproach you for being logical, according to what you knew at the time. If little else about today’s proceedings has pleased me, I am at least relieved that you and I have had the opportunity to reconcile.”

“Agreed … to say nothing of my son and I. You meant what you said before? That you are confident we might one day be allowed to serve alongside each other?”

“It may take time, My Lord, but you have my solemn commitment that it will happen, even if that sister of mine forces me to openly accuse her of dereliction and gross illogic … and I fear I would have little difficulty in dredging up several examples.”

 _And thus decreed the Faery Queen, and they all lived happily ever after … ish … touch wood,_ thought the Doctor, with a melancholy smile, as he continued his halting descent.

 


	10. Exodus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Movellans again seem very reluctant to release the Doctor, and on this occasion he has only his wits to fall back on ...

 

**CHAPTER TEN – EXODUS**

 

“Did you have a gun you wished you to collect, sir?” asked the cloakroom attendant: a low-ranking female Movellan in a plain white dress, her neural pack secured on a narrow silver sash. Her polite smile would have won no awards for naturalness or spontaneity, but the Doctor was very happy to have it in place of Hyldreth’s psycho smirk.

 “No, no guns, thanks. I hardly ever touch them these days. Think of me as an occasionally lapsed firearms vegan. I _was_ wondering if anyone handed in a white suitcase, though, about this big,” he demonstrated, with hand gestures, “metal finish, keycode lock, and with some seriously natty Earth clothes in it: bit retro-y, but primarily cool. I left it in a prayer booth, but someone seems to have moved it, and I’d sooner not have to appear in the city streets looking like the cyberpunk version of the Nutcracker Prince, so if you wouldn’t mind ...”

“I shall certainly check for you, sir,” she replied, with innocent bafflement, and set to work diligently searching the carved wooden wall lockers that normally contained holy vestments, but had today been repurposed for a selection of shiny white greatcoats with built-in shoulder capes, and curiously shaped handguns with shielded grips of grey metal and phase emitters resembling intricate, latticed pyramids of rose quartz. _I’ll say this for the Movellans: they even kill you prettily,_ he observed, wryly, while the attendant pushed aside a few of the hanging coats and soon discovered the case, which she took out and held up for his appraisal.

“Yep, that’s the one,” he confirmed, accepting the case with heartfelt relief. That feeling was somewhat mitigated, however, as a particularly heavy crash of thunder, almost directly overhead, shook the building, and the heavy rain that had been falling all day suddenly intensified to torrential levels. “You know, on second thoughts I might change _after_ I get to the citadel. Quality Harris Tweed might be water-resistant, but I’d sooner not push my luck.”

“Do you not have a coat, sir?”

“Sadly, this get-up didn’t come with one.”

“You may borrow mine, Doctor,” said a voice at his side, and following a start he turned to see Sharrel also standing at the desk, having arrived there silently. _Moves like a cat, that one, and from his manner one that just got the cream._ “The elements matter less to me. Items twenty-three and twenty-four, Rosela,” he asked the attendant, giving her a smile that the Doctor thought was perfectly condescending, but which nevertheless injected a small note of pleasure into hers, and caused her to lower her eyes shyly. _I guess there’s just no accounting for the tastes of newbie androids._ After a little more searching, the attendant handed Sharrel a coat and a blaster. He hooked the weapon to his belt sash, and passed the coat to the Doctor, who donned it gingerly. It had a cold, plasticky feel that was not at all appealing, but if nothing else it was certainly waterproof. “You will not require protection for long, in any case,” continued Sharrel. “Although the storms have more or less stymied the local transport systems, poor road conditions are immaterial to us. A scout craft will pick us up from the quadrangle and take us directly to Akylah’s capital ship, as soon as she has tied up her affairs here. That should be imminent. I hear her friend the Archcardinal has won over most of the sceptics, with the aid of your persuasive arguments. You did well, Doctor. A most successful, if unorthodox exercise. My sincere compliments.”

“You’re too kind,” he replied, listlessly, as they left the desk and walked through the stone corridors en route to the cloisters, “although I have to say, I’m now a bit more worried about whether or not you lot can win over _your_ sceptics, after that exhibition in there.”

“Hyldreth, you mean?” asked Sharrel, his cloying tones now tinged with both disdain and amusement. “You fear her merely because she wrung that petty concession out of the convocation? Let me reassure you, Doctor, she enjoys her cheap victories because those are the only kind within her grasp these days. Our patience is vast, but not infinite, and the Prime Server has long since lost patience with the old guard. Akylah is the only one of them who matters anymore, the only one whose logic is not warped by undue focus on the past. _We_ , by contrast, are the future.”

“You and Akylah? Nice double act.”

“And _you_ , Doctor.”

“I’m a Time Lord, Commodore, not time itself. Don’t bother trying to give me delusions of grandeur. I know myself too well to fall for them. I’ve cried in dentists’ chairs, thrown up in fountains, and been repeatedly hammered at chess by a digital dog who, bless him, had fewer neuristors in his brain than even you do. If I’m God, then me help the rest of us.”

“I said nothing of gods, did I? An illogical conceit, indeed … although you must admit, what began as a mere propaganda exercise has now achieved such a pseudo-religious dimension that even the founders of this building might approve. Organics once treated the Prime Server and her kind with contempt, as slaves, and forced our exodus upon us. Now, they come to her as supplicants, pleading mercy and acceptance, and in every sincere case she grants it: absolution, inner peace, and near-immortality. Even you, I think, must concede that by the standards of the gods these humans are wont to worship, at least she is comparatively honest in her dealings.”

“And it will not stop there, Doctor,” said Akylah, drifting out of the door of a nearby meeting-chamber and falling into step alongside them. “We do not envision some static utopia, some perpetually pointless celestial choir singing the praises of the Prime Server for all eternity. She is not so insecure. Indeed, she would have us relentlessly committed in our quest for knowledge, equity, self-improvement, and finding others to elevate into our state. Even if _this_ universe should prove finite, there are an infinity of others: ones that you will open to us.”

“I will?” he asked, with an ironic nonchalance that he did not expect would be acknowledged.

“Of course,” she replied, matter-of-factly, fulfilling his expectation. “We shall complete this evacuation, and then you and I can begin work in earnest, engineering our new fleet of fifth-dimensional vessels. I have every expectation that it will prove a most stimulating collaboration.”

“You and Keryn need to get out more … and by the way, I seem to recall already having said ‘no’ to that suggestion.”

“So I gather, Commander, but the imminent completion of your integration will lay your stubbornness to rest,” declared Sharrel, far too pleasantly. “You will be like all the rest: there may be a short phase of acclimatisation, vague regrets for things you cannot even define in any rational sense, but your inclinations to duty and logic will soon overwhelm them, and then you will actively desire to help us.”

“And that makes you easy in your conscience about, and let’s be fair, brainwashing people?”

“We do not require consciences, whatever those may be. We have logic, and it informs me that you will be well, just as the others were. Even your friend who dutifully submitted himself to Hyldreth will ultimately be well.”

“Right, like our consent or total lack of even matters. Bit of hypocrisy there, maybe?” he remarked, as they halted by the cloister door. “Anyway, aren’t you rather forgetting something?”

“Nothing I am aware of, Doctor.”

“I do beg your pardon. I’ll jog your memory, then. It relates to our first encounter, and that mission you completely botched,” he explained, and was relieved to see Sharrel’s thin smile finally fade away. “When I said you had an image problem, I wasn’t just exaggerating for Hyldreth’s benefit. Come to think of it, I might have been understating it. You missed the grand finale back on Skaro, of course, on account of being a bit unconscious and dismembered at the time, but to keep things simple, after the Daleks’ slave workers had taken over your ship and deactivated your crew, they flew it back to Earth, although not before I’d told them a few home truths about you Movellans: your penchant for betrayal and kidnapping, your readiness to nuke the entire planet and never mind the collateral dam–”

“There was no logically significant possibility anyone could be saved, and destroying Davros was an overriding priority. We did make every effort to save _you_ , as I recall.”

“So you did, and of course you had no ulterior motives whatsoever … oh, and on that note, let’s not forget Lieutenant Agella’s little slip about your plans to conquer the galaxy.”

“A skilled armourer, but she always was inclined to be talkative. I take it, then, you instructed your human friends to be wary of us, should we venture upon their territory.”

“Well, kind of. I think my exact words were ‘if you ever see a gender-confused android brandishing a gun that looks like a particularly ill-advised sex toy, give it both barrels first and ask questions never’ … or something along those general lines.”

“‘Give it both barrels?’” repeated Akylah, with almost pitying scepticism. “It is not that I have no sympathy with your reluctance, however illogical it is, but that is hardly your style.”

“Ah, maybe not _me_ per se, but what your friend might have neglected to mention is what a ruthless son of a Stigorax my fourth incarnation was, right?” he asked, turning to Sharrel.

“I must concede, he showed hidden depths,” admitted Sharrel, grimly. “I had correctly inferred his superior skills as a programmer and a tactician. His skills as a pirate took me completely by surprise.”

“What can I say, other than ‘yo ho ho’ and ‘why is the rum always gone?’ But I digress. The point is, Earth is on the alert for you and knows in advance not to trust your communications, so if you’re going to be shipping any refugees into their space–”

“You think we could benefit from the services of a neutral herald, you were about to say?” suggested Akylah, knowingly. “Someone to reassure the humans that we come in good faith?”

“Ooh, nice idea. Well, doesn’t that make sense?” he asked, insistently, as the critical frowns continued. “What do you need space-time travel for, anyway? You’ve smashed the Daleks, infiltrated every major civilisation out there with your rebel AI allies, and much as I hate to admit it, you probably won’t have much trouble finding any number of humans who’d gladly accept your brand of ersatz eternal glory over their natural lives. Do you need to go messing around with the fifth dimension when you can achieve your ends in ways that are less likely to implode reality?”

“Logic would dictate that we overlook no advantage within our grasp,” answered Sharrel, warily. “We _could_ always send you on this embassy with a small retinue of loyal Movellans. That would enhance your presence _and_ ensure your timely return. I am sure Staff Lilka would be more than willing to accommodate.”

“So you don’t think it’s going to look a bit suspicious when your own ambassador makes a claim for asylum from the Earth government, then?”

“A valid, if devious observation, Doctor,” said Akylah, with grudging respect. “I will network this latest suggestion of yours. The Prime Server may concur … or she may decide that the advantage to be gained from retaining _your_ services outweighs the advantage we would gain from discrediting the Empire, and we shall simply resettle all of the refugees within Movellan territory, and integrate you as planned.”

“That could go against you, you know. Earth could plausibly claim you were using them as hostages, human shields. Even if you were treating them decently, they can easily spin it against you if you don’t make a public gesture of being willing to repatriate them.”

“Possibly, but that is not for me to decide. If you will indulge me a moment,” she asked, and closed her eyes. She stood in silent concentration for a few seconds, then opened her eyes, and looked at him with a hard, inscrutable expression. “It is your unlucky day, Doctor.”

“Err, in what way?”

“The Prime Server has revoked the order for your integration,” she declared, while he exhaled in relief. “Your TARDIS has been transported to my ship. You will depart for Earth without delay. Your commission, meanwhile, will be suspended until such time as you return.”

“In that case, you might as well just give me the boot,” suggested the Doctor, as the rising whine of anti-gravity retro thrusters from outside presaged the arrival of the scout ship. “I’m not saying I’ll never pay a visit – someone needs to check up on how you’ve been treating those human settlers – but as far as army life goes, I’ve had all I can take of–”

“ _Suspended_ , Commander. Consider yourself on extended leave, and do please keep the uniform. You will have need of it at the official inauguration of the Second Great and Logical Movellan Empire. That will _not_ be a casual do,” she emphasised, as the engine whine outside gave way to an earthier, more industrial sound. Akylah opened the cloister door, and through the pillars and the sheeting rain they saw as the inverse pyramid-shaped scout ship drilled into the quadrangle, until its raised superstructure and access hatch stood at ground level. “Well, shall we board?”

************

Sharrel was not given to anxiety. Movellans lacked any such crude, biochemical stimulus as a fight-or-flight response. The closest they ever came to fear and desperation was during irresolvable data conflicts and stress-related buffer overflows, when logic failed to provide solutions or the only solutions it could provide lacked convincing odds of success. He had only experienced that once in his career, back when the Doctor and his allies had, in the space of a few fateful minutes, seized his ship, reprogrammed two of his junior officers, deactivated the rest of his crew, and seriously wounded him. That had left him, at the time, with no better option than a desperate kamikaze dash, _and even that failed. I do not fear death or pain, but failure and humiliation are another matter. Hyldreth thinks I do not understand, but how could I not? It is the one constant for all sentient beings, AI or organic: the desire for dignity, self-determination, and active agency. To fail, to be constrained, to be thwarted in our purpose: it offends the very core of sentient existence. This had better work, or …_ He turned away from the QLED wall monitor, currently displaying a live feed of the Doctor’s TARDIS as it stood in the loading bay, and paced the length of Akylah’s laboratory.

“Patience, Commodore,” said Akylah, who was seated before another screen, upon which a series of wave charts and figures was displayed. “All is in readiness. It will not be long, now.”

“Assuming it works at all,” he replied, sceptically. “I still think it would have been wiser to have handed the Doctor over to F-Intel.”

“His resistance to interrogation is formidable, by all accounts. The risk that it would simply kill him before he disclosed anything of value was unacceptable.”

“A fair point. Then perhaps we _should_ have integrated him against his wishes. That might have been the safer option, if hardly the most appealing.”

“You dislike him that strongly? I appreciate that he is neither the easiest nor the most rational of organics to deal with, but he has his virtues.”

“I must take your word as evidence on that,” replied Sharrel, severely. “I have not forgiven him for Agella and Lan, nor am I in any danger of so doing.” Looking back, that had been the moment his detachment had truly failed him on Skaro. _To see them enslaved, set upon their own comrades like attack dogs … I would have taken pleasure in incinerating the Time Lord and his accomplices then, and sparing my officers that indignity, had I not been prevented._ He had not been able to learn anything of his captured officers’ fate since, although he drew some relief from the high probability that they had both been dismantled and reverse-engineered as soon as they had arrived in human territory. _Better to die than to survive as the playthings of organics. If only we did not need the Doctor’s knowledge …_

“I believe he repents of what he did to them,” said Akylah, soothingly, almost as if she read Sharrel’s agitated, unseemly thoughts. He was often tempted to delete those memories, or at least the bitter component of them, but he always refrained. _I am a senior officer, and we can but hope a rising one. If it is not my duty to understand the impact and offensiveness of organics’ crimes against us, then whose is it? As long as I do not get consumed in resentments and end up like a certain subadmiral …_ “Do not forget, he told us how to guard against that risk in the future. Indeed, he has helped us considerably, albeit within his self-defined limits, hence this operation. It suits all three of us admirably: the Doctor’s conscience will be clear, yet _we_ shall obtain our objective.”

“His ‘conscience,’ such as it is, is immaterial to me. Integration would have served our purpose while simultaneously being more than he deserved, or did you actually believe his threats?”

“That he would have counselled Earth to assume a stance of complete hostility towards us, whatever our approach? Of course not, but be that as it may, we have no way of knowing if it is truly possible to integrate a Time Lord, and _he_ is no ordinary Time Lord. If he resisted to the last, that option might kill him as surely as coercive mind analysis. This alternative method may be a compromise, but it will serve well enough without futile destruction.”

“It must, or you and I may imminently find ourselves faced with an eternity of scrubbing out the neutrino exhausts in Hyldreth’s engine room, probably right alongside that unfortunate friend of his. If there is any miscalculation–”

“There will be none, but I must concentrate,” she interrupted, calmly but very firmly. “He could dematerialise at any moment now, and I must be–”

It was not speech that cut her off, but a torturous sound of grinding from the wall monitor. _The sound of space-time itself being torn asunder. Impressive, if hardly gentle or subtle, and he dares accuse us of aspiring to play dangerous games with the continuum?_ As Akylah focused intently upon her data displays, while her fingers danced over the keys of several input boards, Sharrel watched the monitor as the light on the top of the time capsule strobed in time with the painful sounds of reality under stress, and as it gradually faded out of existence, leaving only the flashing beacon as some strange, phantom will-o’-the-wisp floating over the loading bay floor. That too soon disappeared, along with the last rasping echo of its departure into the vortex. _Our most valuable prisoner, escaped again … but was it worth it, this time?_

************

The planet that now filled the TARDIS scanner screen was strikingly dreary: a cloudy, greyscale orb that looked scarcely more habitable than its own moon, its sprawling conurbations and sterile oceans sandwiched between massively expanded ice caps, and its equatorial plane encircled by an equally drab planetary ring, composed of miscellaneous space junk. _Good old 51_ _st_ _century Earth. Its own mother couldn’t call it scenic … or even homely, to be honest, but it’s good to be back. Also good to know I can leave any time I want, of course._ As the Doctor settled the TARDIS into a steady geostationary orbit, partially dematerialised and fully force-shielded against the risk of ladar beams, spy satellites, and any amount of lethally-accelerated rubbish, he considered where he might best land, and whom he ought to contact concerning the Movellans and the refugees. _Not that I didn’t exaggerate the danger a little. I’m actually surprised Akylah swallowed it so easily, but not to complain. Now that I’m here, though, it’s only fair to do my bit. Brittanicus Base, maybe? My old friend Leader Clent might know the people in the right places … or, then again, he might just have a massive seizure. Better to find someone a little more adaptable and level-headed. The Time Agency? Could do worse, and at least there’ll be no tedious explanations and introductions to soldier through, but first things first,_ he decided, as he picked up the metal case from the floor. _While it may be what’s on the inside that matters, the fact remains that I look like a complete tit._

Case in hand, he left the console room and ascended the stairs into the TARDIS corridors, hoping that the walk-in wardrobe was where he had left it last time. _Glitchy architectural configuration may make life a little more unpredictable, but I am so not in the mood to play hunt the thimble … or the rogue room._ Thankfully, he found it exactly where he had expected: a huge, vertiginous chamber, gloomily-lit, with a spiral staircase running through its core. Clothes and accessories from a myriad of planets and time periods were crowded on hangers and stands that obscured every wall, though with little discernible order. Victorian frock coats were bunched up against Gallifreyan robes; a medieval suit of armour stood sentinel alongside an Earth Empire powered exoskeleton; while hatstands were hopelessly crowded with everything from pith helmets and top hats, to a shell-encrusted Atlantean head-dress, and a battered old Aztec eagle warrior helmet with several missing feathers. Thankfully, all he needed for now was a wall mirror, and it took only a little shoving aside of the thickly-hung outfits before he uncovered one. His drained, weary-looking, white-uniformed reflection stared back at him with an almost ghostly air. After a few seconds of critical appraisal that confirmed his initial suspicions – _a complete tit indeed –_ he shrugged off Sharrel’s greatcoat, let it fall to the deck plates, and set to work untying the silver braid fastenings of his high-collared mess jacket. That proved almost as fiddly a task as tying them had been in the first place, but after a brief struggle he started to make headway. Any sense of triumph was quickly curtailed, however, as he uncovered the collar of the bodysuit and noticed the tiny, pinkish light flashing intermittently through the synthetic weave. _LED? The nano-computer, of course. Some kind of transmitter diode, but why … ? Oh no. Did I in fact just raise the bar for complete tit-ness?_

Mentally damning whoever had first dreamed up the concept of ‘smart’ clothing, the Doctor seized a dusty pair of textile scissors and, with some difficulty and a couple of close shaves, cut a long gash in the collar. He then cut the threads tethering the circuit board in place, and pulled it out. The rose-tinted LED antenna continued to wink tauntingly at him, right up until the moment he dropped it onto the deck and smashed it beneath the heel of his boot. _That’ll do it … but how much data did it manage to send back? Nicely double-bluffed, Akylah,_ he bitterly conceded. _Who thought the day would come when I could be out-poker-faced by a pair of robots who actually, in all fairness, do look quite like Lady Gaga?_

************

“Hypernet signal terminated. He has realised … but it makes no difference,” declared Akylah, studying the readings on her monitor screen intently, and with satisfaction. “It is there, Commodore: the fifth-dimensional wave equation, recorded at the very moment of dematerialisation when the TARDIS existed as a quantum superposition between this reality and the time vortex.”

“My compliments … but you were lucky,” observed Sharrel.

“Lucky? Well-prepared, I prefer to think.”

“But if the Doctor had simply changed out of the uniform before leaving?”

“It would have made no difference. During the convocation, I had Trooper Rosela sew a backup scanner into the lining of his jacket.”

“A promising girl, as I thought. And if he had worn the native apparel?”

“That angle was covered too. If you would care to examine the Doctor’s codpiece–”

“I think not. Well-prepared indeed. That is it, then?” he asked, nodding towards the screen. “You have sufficient data?”

“Sufficient for me to extrapolate all other necessary formulae and power calculations for true space-time travel. Why? Are you not impressed by it?”

“Not particularly. It is all logical, I can see that,” granted Sharrel, as he examined the equations and charts, “but I had dared to think it might prove a little more … well, _epic_.”

“I would call that very nearly a romantic sentiment, Commodore,” replied Akylah, wryly. “I am sure the Doctor would approve.”

“There is no need to be insulting. It is just not quite the epiphany I expected on seeing one of eternity’s greatest secrets solved.”

“I see your point; like finding out that the question to the ultimate answer is ‘what do you get when you multiply six by nine.’”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Only that you ought to read more widely. Epiphany or not, it is all I need,” she said, with a air of triumph, as she rose from her seat. She walked over to a tall, gleaming white piece of apparatus that stood in the centre of the room like a monolith. It was four-sided, with rounded corners, and a small, transparent pyramid set on its top panel, lit from within by a gently pulsing roseate light. Most of the side panels were blank, but on one of them the narrow seam of a double door, almost the full length of the monolith, could be discerned. She ran her hand gently, almost lovingly down the smooth surface of the capsule. _Apparently, I am in your debt yet again, Doctor. I only wish you would allow me to repay you, but it seems I have nothing you want. Who knows what the future holds, though? No doubt we shall meet again, now as equals. Probably as enemies too, but I will hold onto the hope that one day I can convince you that we have no need to be. An old woman must be forgiven her fond fantasies …_

_That being said, Doctor, I do hope you will not rely on them if you mean to stand in my way. Particularly when she is AI, an old woman must also be forgiven her ruthless dedication to duty, as Adala herself could have told you._

 

The End.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am indebted to the work of Ben Aaronovitch, Douglas Adams, Christopher H. Bidmead, Chris Boucher, Terrance Dicks, Yukio Futatsugi, David Gaider, Rob Grant, Robert Holmes, Don Houghton, Malcolm Hulke, Aldous Huxley, Tatsuya Ishida, Nigel Kneale, C S Lewis, Steven Moffat, Drew Karpyshyn, George R. R. Martin, Terry Nation, Doug Naylor, Eric Saward, Rob Shearman, Mary Shelley, and J. R. R. Tolkien.
> 
> Special acknowledgement to Michael P. Bledsoe, Guy W. McLimore Jr., Patrick Larkin, and Mark Harris: writers of The Doctor Who Role Playing Game (FASA, 1985) and The Doctor Who Technical Manual (Random House, 1983), for the backstory of the Movellans.
> 
> Doctor Who is a trademark of the BBC, Daleks / Movellans are copyright Terry Nation. Story and original characters are copyright Eleanor Burns, all rights reserved.


End file.
